A ; ^\\ 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



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t UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. J 






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January 1, 1847. 

A LIST OF BOOKS 

RECENTLY PUBLISHED BY 

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POETRY, &.O. 



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WILLIAM THOMPSON BACON. Poems. One vol- 

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A LIST OF BOOKS RECENTLY PUBLISHED 



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ROBERT SWAIN 






FOOTPRINTS ON THE SANDS OF TIME. 



MEMOIR 



Of 



ROBEET SWAIN 






BOSTON: I 

JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY, 



MDCCCXLVII. 






THE LIBRARY 

OF CONGRESS 

WASHINGTON 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1846, 

by James Munroe and Company, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of 

Massachusetts. 



1 



boston : 

PRINTED BY FREEMAN AND BOLLES, 
DEVONSHIRE STREET. 



THE FRIENDS 



ROBERT SWAIN, 



MEMORIAL OF HIS LIFE, 



AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 



i £x 



7 



PREFACE. 



A limited number of copies of this little volume was 
originally printed for the use of Robert's friends only. 
The interest felt in the simple and touching story of his 
life, and a wish for it to be allowed a more general circu- 
lation, have been so often and so kindly expressed, that 
there ought not perhaps to be any hesitation in suffering 
it to go forth freely on its mission of encouragement and 
instruction to the young, 



MEMOIR. 



CHAPTER I. 

HIS CHILDHOOD. 

Robert Swain was born in New Bedford, the 
21st of February, 1823. His constitution was 
delicate from the first, without however any de- 
cided manifestation of disease, until he was 
nearly nine years of age. In the autumn of 
that year, symptoms of an affection of the hip- 
joint made their appearance, and in a few 
weeks the inflammation increased, so that every 
motion of the limb caused him pain. He was 
then taken to Boston, and, by the advice of an 
experienced physician, a splint was made to 
fit the leg, in which, after his return home, it 
was confined, so as to prevent any movement 
of the joint ; and he was placed on a bed, there 
to remain fifteen months. 



A MEMOIR. 

It seemed hard for an active boy to be thus 
deprived of those out-door plays, which are so 
great a source of amusement in childhood. In 
Robert's case, this was only the commencement 
of a series of sacrifices, which, in one form or 
another, he was obliged to make throughout 
his short life. And yet few boys were happier, 
or enjoyed more than he. His bed was his 
play-ground. He was always cheerful, never 
at a loss for amusements. He built and rigged 
boats, learned to sketch objects from his win- 
dow, or pieces of furniture in the room, watched 
the vessels sailing in the harbour, read, played 
with his parrot and canary birds, or with his 
young friends who came to see him. He had 
a great love of flowers, and this was a constant 
source of pleasure. But his own employments 
and feelings are best described by himself in 
some letters, written word for word, at this 
time, as he dictated them. Their perfect sim- 
plicity cannot fail to interest the young, and 
may teach them how a contented and happy 
spirit can spread a bright gleam of sunshine 
through even the chamber of sickness and pain. 






MEMOIR. 3 

TO MISS S. P. 
dear sophia, Feb. 1832. 

I have got on the splint, and it does not hurt 
me at all. Father has had a shelf made for 
me. It has two legs, one on each side of the 
bed, and the shelf between ; and it can be moved 
close up to me, or farther off, just as I please, 
and I put all my things on it. Mother went to 
Mrs. A's. the other day, and she sent me some 
beautiful flowers. And last evening cousin 
Mary and Sarah were going to the cotillon 
party, and Mrs. A. sent each of them a bunch 
of flowers, to wear in their hair, (O, I was 
going to say, that I put my flowers in water 
so that they need not fade,) and when Mary 
came home, she gave me all her flowers, and 
altogether they made a very pretty nosegay. 
There is a beautiful double gilly-flower, that 
smells very sweet indeed; and a rosebud that 
will bloom very soon, I think, if I keep it in 
water ; and I have got fourteen pretty little dai- 
sies. The other day father moved the bed up 
to the window, and I took the spy-glass, and 
watched all the boats and ships, till they got 
out of sight. I have a school, morning and 
afternoon. Mother keeps school for me in the 
morning, and Mary in the afternoon. In the 



ME MOIR. 



morning I cipher, and have a grammar lesson, 
and in the afternoon I have history and draw- 
ing and spelling. I have made four little boxes, 
and covered them with pictures. I am making 
a bead-mark for you, and I shall send it in this 
letter if I get it done time enough. Every even- 
ing father comes up after tea, and plays domi- 
noes with me. I am so happy here, I am almost 
glad I am lame. 



TO THE SAME. 
dear sophia, New Bedford, May 25th, 1832. 

I have waited a great while for an answer to 
my letter, but there has not any come; sol 
thought I would write you again. 

Mrs. R. sent me a beautiful little canary bird ; 
he is very tame, and yesterday he came and ate 
dinner with me. He lit on my waiter, and ate 
some hominy ; and at night he got on the edge 
of my bowl and drank some milk out of it. We 
let him out of his cage every morning, and he 
stays out all day. Yesterday evening, the 
chamber-door was a little way open, and we 
thought he had flown out. Father looked up 
garret and down cellar, and all about the house, 
and could not find him ; and, just as I was go- 
ing to play a game of dominoes with father, I 



MEMOIR. 5 

saw him upon the window-shutter ; and, a little 
while after he put his head under his wing to 
go to sleep, and father caught him, and put him 
into his cage again ; and he got up on his high- 
est perch and went to sleep, right away. And 
this morning I let him out of his cage, and he 
has been flying about all day. I give him 
chickweed and canary-seed to eat, and water 
to drink. He likes to light on the window-sash 
very much. He will get on the table, and look 
in the looking-glass, and when he sees another 
little bird there, he makes the prettiest little 
noise, just as if he was talking to him. 

I have beautiful flowers now, that come out 
of the garden ; and cousin Sally sent me up a 
calla some time ago, and I put it in water, with 
my other flowers, and the little bird lit on it 
very often, and would peck it; and at last he 
made so many holes in it, that he spoilt it, and 
it all withered up, and we were obliged to 
throw it away. We have some columbines 
in the* garden, and they bear beautiful flow- 
ers, that have honey in them ; and mother picks 
some and brings them into the house, and puts 
them in water, and the little bird will light 
on the edge of the glass, and pick off the ends 
of the flowers that have honey in them. I 



6 MEMOIR. 

have the cage set on the foot of my bed, and 
the little bird will come and light on my bed, 
and hop into the cage to get something to eat ; 
and I have a piece of thread fastened to the 
door of his cage, so that at night, when he goes 
in to get something to eat, I pull the string, and 
that shuts the door of his cage, and I keep him 
in there till the next morning, and then I let 
him out again. Sometimes he sings beautifully. 
The first part of his song is beautiful, but the 
last is very shrill. The cage is a very pretty 
one. It has a little piazza to it. I have drawn 
the cage, and it makes a very pretty picture. 
Good-by. Robert Swain. 



TO THE SAME. 
my dear sophia, November 7th, 1832. 

I have begun this letter the moment I received 
yours. I have a great deal to say, as I have 
not written you these two or three months. I 
have had a most beautiful present sent me to- 
day from Mrs. P., who lives on Pope's Island, 
which is one of the small islands over which 
the bridge crosses. The present is some guinea 
hen's feathers, besides the feathers of some other 
birds, to cover a basket with. The basket is 



MEMOIR. i 

to be made of pasteboard, and the feathers are 
to be arranged on the outside, and silk or color- 
ed paper on the inside. She sent me also a 
beautiful little stuffed bird, about as large as a 
canary. The breast is nearly white, and the 
top of the head and back, dark pencil color. I 
have also a beautiful rose-tree, which cousin 
William gave me the other day. When he gave 
it to me it had one rose in bloom, and two buds. 
The two buds have blown out since. I have 
covered the flower-pot with moss, which makes it 
look very pretty. And mother is going to try to 
find me a saucer, and I am going to cover it with 
moss too, so that it may be like the flower -pot. 
When your sister Mary was here, she learned 
me how to make a grotto ; such as she had 
once seen at the fair. We covered it over with 
moss and shells, so that it looked very pretty. 
In the inside of it, I put two little humming- 
bird's nests, which I had given me. In one of 
the nests I put a little glass bird. After Mary 
had gpne, I made another grotto, with two 
arches, and put a little glass dog and a little deer 
in it, and sent it to Mrs. A. I sent it to her be- 
cause she had sent me so many beautiful flow- 
ers. And the day after I sent it, she sent me a 
beautiful note, with a bunch of flowers. 



8 MEMOIR. 

I have been reading "Hall's Voyages," and 
" Sequel to Frank," which I never read before, 
and I like them both very much. Every even- 
ing, when mother is at leisure, she reads to me 
in "Bertha's Visit." I have been moved into 
mother's room, because she thought I should 
take cold, as the east wind blew in at that win- 
dow. My bed has been moved close up to mo- 
ther's ; but it is away from the window, where I 
cannot look out. I like the change very well; 
but I had rather be by the window, where I 
can look out and see all the people, and the 
vessels sailing up and down the river. 

I have been here eight months, and am very 
well, and have got only four more months to be 
here. I have school every morning and after- 
noon, as I used to do. Joanna R. and little 
Eliza come to school to Mary, and I think it is 
a great deal pleasanter having a school with 
them than having it all alone. Cousin Susan 
goes to the academy now, and when school is 
done in the afternoon, and she comes home, just 
before tea, we play backgammon till tea-time ; 
and sometimes she comes up after tea, and we 
play a little then. I think my leg is a great 
deal better, for I can move it a good deal, and 
it does not hurt me. Good-by. 

Your friend, Robert Swain. 



MEMOIR. 



TO THE SAME. 
dear SOPHIA, New Bedford, Jan. 12th, 1833. 

I received your letter last evening, and am 
very glad to have one, for I believe you have 
not written to me for more than two months. 
I have got the hooping cough, and do not feel 
very well. I cough almost, every day, and 
whenever I wake up in the night. My cough 
does not hurt my leg, but it weakens my eyes, 
so that I have to have the room very dark. 
Mary has been making a shade for them to-day. 
I do not do much of anything all day but cough. 
I can't read, though I want to very much ; for 
cousin Edward has lent me some books, which 
I expect are very interesting. But mother reads 
them to me whenever she is at leisure. I forget 
whether I told you in my last letter that father 
went to Washington on some business nearly 
two months ago, and was gone about a month. 
When he came home, he brought me a basket 
of oranges, and mother a beautiful gold watch. 

I have been making a grotto for a Christmas 
present to cousin Mary. It is nearly as large 
as the one your sister Mary and I made, and is 
a very pretty one, only the door is rather too 
small. 



10 MEMOIR. 

I have also been making some book-marks, 
for Christmas and New Year's presents. I 
have given them all away now. I have been 
making a bead safety-chain, to give father on 
his birth-day ; but I am afraid I shall need 
some help about it, for I can't work on it now. 
It is made of black cut beads, and looks like 
black ribbon, only it glistens. 

One beautiful day, about two weeks ago, I 
was reading " Stories about Boston," a book 
grandma gave me for a new year's present, 
when father came up here, and asked me if I 
should like to go down stairs ; I told him yes. 
So he took me up in his arms, and carried me 
down in the parlor, and laid me on the sofa. 
You don't know how queer the things did look. 
The room seemed very large, for I had not been 
down there for ten months. Mary's plants 
looked very pretty. They were set up on green 
benches by the window, so that they might 
have the sun. A geranium of mother's, which 
bears beautiful flowers, had grown nearly two 
feet since I saw it last. 
Good-by. 

Robert Swain. 



MEMOIR. 11 

TO THE SAME. 
dear sophiAj New Bedford, Feb. 3, 1833. 

My cough is nearly well, and I can bear a 
good deal of light. I can read and use my eyes 
as much as I want to. I have a school every 
morning now, which takes up almost all the 
morning. My leg hurts me every time I cough, 
and father says he thinks it will put me back 
two months, so I shall have to lay here till the 
last of May. 

I have been making some kaleidoscopes. One 
of them I gave away, and the other I was going 
to send to you, but I have broken it ; and so I 
can't send it. I shall send you a book-mark, 
the first I have made since I could use my eyes. 
The other book-mark I want you to give to 
Mary, if she stays with you still. 

Wednesday. — The kaleidoscope which I 
send to you, is one father gave me. He got it 
made down street, and I think it is prettier 
than any one I could make. I do not cough 
but very little, not more than once or twice all 
night. All those months last summer, during 
which I did not write you any, in the warm 
summer afternoons father used to put me on a 
little bed which he had made for me, and 



12 MEMOIR. 

moved me on the piazza, where I could see the 
whole town, and the river, till it emptied into 
the bay, and almost all the bay; part of it 
though was taken off by a house. I could see 
the sky, and the point covered with woods, and 
all the vessels that sailed up and down the river, 
which was covered almost every pleasant day 
with little boats. I remember of being out there 
the fourth of July, and staying there till sun- 
set, when we heard the guns fire. While I was 
there I saw the truckmen pass with their white 
frocks, and ribbons on their horses' heads. 
They were all on horseback, and the two men 
who went first, had horns or bugles, which 
every little while they blew. I used to stay out 
there to tea, and come back again, as soon as I 
had done. I came in my window, which opens 
down to the floor. In the fall, one of the boys 
made me a kite, and, when the wind was west- 
erly, one of them used to get it up for me, and 
throw the ball of twine upon the piazza, and 
then come up and hand it to me. So I used to 
fly kites. 1 7 d keep it up, till it was getting late, 
and then I would wind it in. 

I have been transferring pictures. Mary 
helped me some, and. we succeeded very well. 

Good-by. 



MEMOIR. 13 

TO THE SAME. 
dear sophia, March 6, 1833. 

Father is going to Salem to-morrow morn- 
ing, and I shall send my letter by him. I have 
got entirely well of my hooping cough, though 
my leg is not as well as it was before I had it. 
E. P. sent me a perspective glass, which is very 
pretty. The windows in the pictures are cut 
out, and underneath them is placed gold leaf, 
which makes them look as if they were illumi- 
nated in the evening; and in the daytime as if 
the sun was shining on them, as it sometimes 
does near sunset. 

Little Cornelia, Eliza's sister, has been in to 
see me this afternoon, and has just gone away. 
She gave me a magic lantern, which we had 
out this evening, and it was very pretty. It 
made the queerest figures on the wall that ever 
were seen — men with long noses, and horses 
and carts, and carriages and cows, running 
along after each other; and they would have 
looked like real things if they had been large. 

I am very much obliged to you for the picture 
you sent me, and we all think it is quite pretty. 
We have put it in the other room till it is dry ; 
for when the room is swept in the morning, it 
would get dusty. 



14 MEMOIR. 

Yesterday the carpet was changed, and I was 
moved into the little room for an hour or two, 
and I thought everything looked beautiful out- 
doors, though it was winter. I have not been 
to the window before, since I was moved into 
this room. The river looked beautifully, for it 
was partly frozen over and partly bright blue 
water. 

I am making a chain for mother, with black 
and gold beads. I am going to put this motto, 
" To my Mother," on it, in gold letters. 

It is most time for to go to sleep now; so 

good-by. 

Your friend, 

Robert Swain. 



In the spring Robert had so far recovered 
from his lameness, as to sit up a part of the 
day in a chair constructed on wheels, for the 
purpose of enabling him to move about the 
room ; and after a while he began to walk on 
crutches. But it was not till the month of June, 
sixteen months after he was first confined to his 
bed, that he was permitted to go out of doors. 

In the beginning of August the family re- 
moved to the island of Naushon. But still 



M EM01R. 15 

Robert was obliged to lie on his bed a part of 
each day until the close of the season, when 
he was able to walk out and ride a little about 
the island. In the beautiful autumnal days, he 
rode out with his father, for the first time, 
through those woods and amid those quiet 
scenes, which he learned to love so well. But 
the cold weather again brought back his disease 
in a new form, and he was confined to his bed 
the greater part of the two succeeding winters 
with abscesses, which were exceedingly painful, 
and at one time he was so very ill, that almost 
all hopes of his recovery were given up. 

But again he was restored to his friends, and 
again the family removed to their island home, 
where, for two successive summers, he gradu- 
ally improved in strength and health. His time 
was partly occupied in study, which he attended 
to regularly with one of his cousins; and in 
his play-hours he found enough of healthy 
amusement in boating, fishing, walking, and 
riding. , 

His leisure time out of doors was spent mostly 
in a boat which his father had given him., and 
which he kept in order, and managed entirely 
by himself. He would often spend the whole 
afternoon in the harbor at Naushon, alone with 



16 MEMOIR. 

his boat and fishing gear, or perhaps sailing 
little boats, which he had been modelling and 
rigging with his own hands, and in which he 
showed no small amount of mechanical skill. 
In this way he learned to take care of himself; 
and being so much alone, with the water below, 
the sky above, and the green fields and woods 
around, he formed habits of meditation, and 
acquired a love of nature, which could not but 
have a salutary influence on his character and 
his health. He liked to have some one of his 
own age with him, but was never at a loss for 
something to do. With his boat in fair weather 
and his work-bench when it rained, together 
with his lessons, which occupied a small portion 
of each day, and in which he engaged with the 
same zeal as in his plays, he had always enough 
on his hands. In the island, indeed, was found 
that rare combination of land and water, sun- 
shine and shade, retirement and society, which 
most happily furnish mind and body with their 
various and appropriate culture. These influ- 
ences sank early and deep into his nature ; and 
as no spot could perform a higher office, so none 
could be endeared to him by more delightful 
associations. 



CHAPTER II. 

SANTA CRUZ. 

Age 12-14. 

In the autumn of 1835, Robert went with his 
father and mother, to spend the winter at Santa 
Cruz. There are no letters or journals of his, 
to tell how much he enjoyed and how much he 
was delighted with all the new and wonderful 
things which he saw in this " Island of Beauty," 
where there is so much to delight the eye, and 
give pleasure to every sense. It is a perfect 
paradise for children ; and it seemed a happy 
compensation to Robert for the privations of the 
three preceding winters. 

But though we have no record of this winter, 
yet the next year, when he went there again 
with his father, he kept a daily journal, from 
which are copied the following extracts. 



Thursday, 9th of Feb., 1837. Here we are 
on board the ship Whitmore, with a fine north- 
wester. The ship George Washington has gone 
out just ahead of us, and there are several 

B 



18 MEMOIR. 

vessels starting with us. Four o'clock. We are 
going straight for Santa Cruz. We had a fine 
sail out j past Governor's Island, the George 
Washington ahead of us, all the way. It was 
a beautiful sight for any one who likes to see 
vessels. When the pilot left us off Sandy Hook, 
there were three ships and two brigs, besides 
our own vessel, all lying to, for a pilot boat, 
at one time. Then the little pilot boats, sailing 
swiftly about from one ship to the other, taking 
out the pilots. I think I never saw a prettier 
sight. But I cannot write any more now, for I 
begin to feel sick. 

Wednesday, 15th. This is the first day that 
I have felt well enough to write, since we left 
New York, and I will write down as much of 
what has happened in the mean time, as I can 
remember. 

The day we left, we went on very well. 
The wind continued fair, and plenty of it. I 
was sick all day. Nothing occurred of any 
consequence that I can remember, except once, 
when uncle M. was putting on some fresh boots, 
we shipped a sea, and one or two buckets full 
of water came down through the skylight, 
which was not perfectly tight, and filled his 
boots with salt water. That was not the worst 



MEMOIR. 19 

mischief it did ; for the stewardess was standing 
directly under it, and she got wet to the skin. 
She was standing very quietly, talking, and the 
first thing she knew, down came the water 
upon her. She jumped, but not the right way, 
and before she could jump again, she was wet 
through. 

Sunday, 12th. I don't remember that any- 
thing happened that day till 12 o'clock at night, 
when we had a heavy squall. I awoke about 
that time, and, if it had not been so late, father 
said, he would have gone on deck. Uncle M. 
was up, and he came and reported how things 
were going on, every little while. Once, when 
it blew the hardest, he came down and said we 
had carried away our foretopsail. It was the 
very height of the squall. The captain gave 
the orders, " Hard up your helm, and wear ship, 
and scud before the wind. ;; The helm was hard 
up, but the ship did not pay off at all. It was 
then that the sail was carried away; not the 
foretopsail, as uncle thought, but a staysail, that 
was of no consequence. Luckily, the ship 
payed off then; for if she had hung so, with 
her lee side all under water, much longer, some- 
thing must have been carried away — her masts 
or some of her sails. However, the squall, like 



20 MEMOIR. 

most squalls in these latitudes, did not last long, 
and, in a little while, we resumed our course. 
It blew hard all the next day, and by his obser- 
vations the captain judged, that at 4 o'clock, 
we should be opposite the large reef that extends 
fifteen miles from the west end of Bermuda. 

We continued to stand on until six o'clock, 
when the wind blew a gale. The captain feared 
it would blow still harder, so that we could 
carry no sail at all, and then we should be 
caught with Bermuda under our lee, and un- 
doubtedly be driven on shore ; so we wore ship 
and stood directly back again. For three hours 
we kept on : and they were three anxious hours 
to some of us — to those who knew how near 
Bermuda we were. I lay in my berth through 
the whole of it. If it had been in the day time, 
I should have gone on deck; but I could hear 
almost all that was going on where I was. 
The wind did blow tremendously, and every 
little while, it would whistle through the rigging, 
and make a loud roaring sound, like the surf 
rolling on a beach. It came in little squalls. I 
could always tell when one was coming ; for 
the captain would call out, " Mind your weather 
helm " ; and then there would be a rushing sound, 
" Hard up, hard up, I say ;" and in a minute, 



MEMOIR. 21 

the sea would strike us, and the ship would 
quiver and shake from head to stern. Several 
times I thought she had struck ; and often the 
water would come pouring down the cabin sky- 
light, Avhich was not perfectly tight, and drench 
whoever happened to be under it. I often 
thought of Paddy, when the captain called out, 
as he did, every few mintes, "How do you 
head ? How do you head now ? " — and I heard 
the answer, "Northeast, sir," — "Northeast by 
east, sir." We were steering Paddy's northeast 
course, and all I hoped, was that Bermuda 
would not get in our way. If we had gone on 
shore then, we should have all been lost. No 
boat could have lived in such a sea ; and the 
island was fifteen miles off from the end of the 
reef. Only think ! what an awful responsibility 
rests upon the captain of a ship ; more than they 
often know, or think about, themselves. We 
stood on our northeast all night, till we had 
passed Bermuda ; and then we tacked, and stood 
south, by the east end of it. I, and a good 
many others, beside, were glad enough, when 
we were safely past Bermuda. 

A gale of wind at sea, was just what I have 
been wishing for. But when it comes in the 
night, with a lee shore but a few miles off, it is 



22 MEMOIR. 

not such an agreeable matter ; particularly 
when, if we get on the reef, there is not one 
chance in ten, of any of us being saved. 

Friday, 17th. The wind is directly ahead 
to-day, but it is very pleasant. The sun is out 
bright, and we go along finely ; although it is 
not towards Santa Cruz. It seems quite like 
old times. The water is that deep, transparent 
blue that is only found in the tropics. The air 
is soft and warm, and everything looks so pleas- 
ant that one cannot help feeling glad and happy. 
Fred and I have been playing, or skylarking, as 
the sailors call it, all the morning. We got my 
bows and arrows out of the cabin, and had 
some fun with them. We have fed the ducks 
and geese with corn and water, and now, Fred 
is reading, and I am trying to write. We have 
hired a place in the bows of the longboat, be- 
tween the horses and the cow, ducks and pigs, 
where we sit and talk, and have fun. It is a 
fine place ; for we can see everything that is 
going on, and whistle and do what we please. 
The captain let us (that is, Fred and I,) have it 
quite cheap; we only pay a shilling a week, 
and nobody has a right to come there but our- 
selves. 

Sunday, 19th. The wind was ahead all day 



MEMOIR. 23 

yesterday, as it is to-day, also. The captain 
says we are three hundred miles to the eastward 
of Santa Cruz. I do wish the wind would come 
fair. Eight o'clock. The wind is northwest, 
at last. About two hours ago, we had a squall, 
and the wind came round. Now we are going 
on finely, with a smashing wind, nine knots. 
A little while ago, the second Stewart, coming 
down stairs, with a platter of roast-beef for din- 
ner, let it slip off the dish, and down it came, 
thump, thump, thump, against all the stairs, 
till it got to the bottom. How the ship rolls ! 
A minute ago, the barrel of empty bottles fell 
over, and my candle fell into the salt-cellar, 
that, together with chickens, &c, is set on the 
table for the mates' tea. 

Monday, 20th. The wind is fair, and we go 
ten knots, with steeringsails set, on both sides. 
I have amused myself fishing up gulfweed 
almost all the morning, and have got quite a lot 
of it. 

Tuesday, 21st. After all, there is nothing 
like the sea. I never saw anything look so 
beautiful as it did last evening. The moon was 
full ; and it cast such a mellow light over the 
sails. They looked like the wings of a huge 
bird, flapping slowly and gracefully up and 



24 MEMOIR. 

down; and then, when the wind breezed up, 
the same sails dilating and swelling out, as 
though they would burst from the bolt ropes. 
And the ship, rolling first one side, and then the 
other, dipping her steeringsails' booms in the 
water, almost every roll; and driving on nine 
or ten knots an hour. O ! it was glorious ! 
I staid out on the bowsprit all the evening, 
enjoying it. 

To-day is as pleasant as yesterday was. The 
captain says he has no doubt but what we have 
got the trade winds, and shall get to Santa Cruz 
in three days. I, for one, don't care much 
when we get there ; for I am enjoying myself 
as much here as I should on shore, now that I 
am not sea-sick. 

Tuesday evening. The wind has been light, 
and part of the time it has been almost calm. 
I staid out on the bowsprit, watching the ship, 
sea, sails and clouds. I saw two grampuses for 
a moment, and then they were gone. I had 
almost forgot it was my birthday to-day. I am 
fourteen years old. Hurrah ! 

Wednesday, 22d. Nothing has happened un- 
common to-day. Everything goes on, as the 
ship does, right ahead. I have seen a great 
many flying fish, this morning. They spring 



MEMOIR. 25 

out of the water, and go skimming along, for 
a few minutes, and then dive, plump, into a 
wave, and are gone. 

Thursday, 23d. Wind the same, only a little 
more ; and instead of five, we go seven knots. 
We have had breakfast and dinner on deck to- 
day ; and every one liked it a great deal better, 
the smell of bilge-water was so strong in the 
cabin. 

I have just seen a beautiful sight. A large 
grampus, fifteen or twenty feet long, came and 
played about the ship. Sometimes he looked 
beautifully. As he rolled over on one side, you 
could see nothing but a streak of bright blue. 
And then he would shoot along like lightning, 
and go away ahead of the ship, and we would 
not see him for some time. Then, suddenly, 
some one would cry out, " Here he is, here he 
is ! look ! look ! look ! J? and, O, what a scrab- 
ble to get to the side of the ship ! Once, having 
shown himself on one side, he dove under the 
vessel, and came up on the other, all out of 
water ; and I had a fine view of him. At last he 
went off, and we went to dinner, and I have not 
seen him since. We have had several showers 
this afternoon, and everything is wet on deck. 

Land O ! land O ! Here we are in sight of 



26 



MEMOIR, 



land. We passed through the passage between 
Sombrero and Anegada in the night, and now, 
the land that we see is Virgingorda. The cap- 
tain thinks that we shall arrive at Santa Cruz 
about five or six o'clock. St. Croix is in sight ; 
and we are going on about six or seven knots. 
Eight o'clock. Here we are at Santa Cruz. 
We cast anchor about sunset, and came up here 
to Mr. Heigh tman's house, where we are going 
to stay till we can find another place 

Sunday, 27th of Feb. Early this morning, I 
went out and had a row in one of the boats, 
and, if it is as pleasant, I am going again to- 
morrow. I have just come from the Sunday 
market with a cartload of fruit — oranges, ba- 
nanas, sapadiloes, soursops, &c. It looks quite 
like old times there : the negroes carrying their 
fruit on their heads, and jabbering away like so 
many monkeys. 

March 4th. I have done nothing particular 
these two or three days past, except to draw 
before breakfast, which is the pleasantest part of 
the day here. I generally attract about as much 
attention, and full as many negroes as a com- 
pany of soldiers, marching through New Bed- 
ford, do. The other day, as I was taking a 
sketch up back of the town, I thought all the 



MEMOIR. 27 

negroes on the island had turned out. I had 
not been there five minutes, before one or two 
came up the hill, then three or four more, and 
just before I went away, I counted fifteen 
ranged about me, beside a great many more 
that had come and gone away again, having 
satisfied their curiosity. I never saw such lazy 
people in my life. They would stand by me 
for an hour, without saying a word ; and when 
they could not look over my back, then they 
would stand, like so many black statues, and 
nobody could tell them from such, except by 
their shifting their weight from one leg to the 
other, like some old horses I have seen. I had 
almost finished drawing, when, suddenly, as 
they always do there, a shower came up. 
And then the negroes and I had to scamper. I 
went under the portico of the nearest house, 
which luckily was near, with the whole train at 
my heels. There I met father, who had been 
driven in also by the rain ; and we went home 
together. 

Yesterday we moved down here to Hand- 
son's : a large house, near the water. It is a 
very pleasant place, with trees on each side of 
it ; and I think we shall like it very much. 
There is only one objection : that, in the after- 



28 MEMOIR. 

noon, it is very hot. There is no gallery on the 
west side, and the trees are not yet large enough 
to shade it ; so that, in the afternoon, the sun 
beats right into our rooms, and I am almost 
roasted, and shall stop for the present. The 
thing that I like most about this house, is, that 
it is so near the water. There is a little wharf 
at the end of the garden, and a very pretty little 
bay makes in there. Uncle M. has hired a 
small boat, to row about in, and I have fine 
times, rowing and sailing my little schooner. 

Sunday evening. Early this morning, before 
breakfast, I got into my little boat, and had a 
fine row. I went out to the Key, a little island, 
off in the harbor, from which I began a sketch 
of the town. To-morrow I am going out there 
again ; and so I shall go until I have finished it. 

A little before supper, there was a negro came 
here with a bird to sell, that he called a water- 
bird. He asked ten stivers for it ; but he said 
he would take less. Father asked him if he 
would take five. He said, "No, massa ; eight 
stivers, massa." Father told him he would 
give him five stivers, if he would take the bird 
and throw it out the window. He said, " Well, 
massa, give me five stivers, and I will let him 
go." But he would not let him go until he had 



MEMOIR. 29 

the stivers. And then they began to question 
him. Father asked him what he was going to 
do with his money. He said he was going to 
buy bread, and that perhaps he should get a 
dram to keep his spirits up. They then asked 
him what plantation he belonged to ; and 
whether he got whipped often. " Yes, massa, 
dey whip me every day." " Do they whip you 
hard ? " " Yes, massa, dey whip me like a fire 
sometimes, massa." " I guess it is because you 
don't work." "Yes, massa, me work very 
hard." " You don't work Sundays, though?" 
" Oh no, massa. But God Almighty, he make 
de Sunday too short, massa." "Well, buddy, 
here is another old bit for you." " Tank you, 
massa; tank you, sir." And so off he went, 
tickled enough with his ten stivers. 

Friday, 9th. Uncle M., father and I went 
over to the west end. We started early in the 
morning before breakfast, in a carriage, with a 
pair of young horses, which uncle has hired. 
It was a, very pleasant morning, and the island 
looked beautifully as we rode along. Par- 
ticularly, the view from the top of that hill, 
where we stopped when we were going maroon- 
ing. Don't you remember, mother, while we 
were waiting, I took a sketch of Concordia? 



30 



MEMOIR, 



We happened to stop at the very same place, a 
few minutes, and it seemed to me as though I 
saw my picture over again. There were the 
same houses, and the mill grinding, and the 
marmee tree at the left of the picture. Every- 
thing looked as if it had not been touched since 
we went away. The next plantation we came 
to, was Orange Grove, which, you may re- 
member, we stopped at, when we were going 
to Bassin last year. It had a beautiful garden, 
and a great many oranges in it ; and there was 
a negro house, where the keeper of the garden 
lived. Don't you remember, he came out and 
got us some oranges, with a long stick with a 
hook on the end of it ? We saw the tamarind 
tree that we left our horses under, and the little 
brook. 

In a little while we came to Mrs. Stevens's, 

where we staid to breakfast After 

breakfast we started again, and went on until 
we came to Hogensberg. There it looked so 
beautifully, that father wanted to go in and 
show uncle what a beautiful place it was. So 
we drove up to the house, and got out; and 
walked over the garden. We saw the old gar- 
dener. He knew father and me ; and said we 
had been there last year ; but uncle M. he was 



MEMOIR. 31 

not sure about. We gave him some old bits, 
and told him to have a bunch of flowers ready 
for us when we came back. The ride from 
there to town was very pleasant. All the plan- 
tations looked so natural — Concordia, and the 
Wheel of Fortune — they did not look changed 
in the least. When we got into town, we went 
to Mr. Hill's, and sent our carriage round to the 
stable 

Monday, 14th. Yesterday, father, Miss T. 
and I, went to the governor's house on the hill. 
We had a very pleasant ride; and when we 
got there, the servants showed us all over the 
house. There is one of the most beautiful 
views from a little portico, that I ever saw. It 
looks over upon the town and harbor of Bassin ; 
and you can see vessels coming in, a long way 
off. The governor can, with his spy-glass, see 
vessels going into St. Thomas. 

Saturday. I have got up quite an acquaint- 
ance with some boys here, Lawyer K.'s sons, 
the man, who rents the house to Mr. H. *I am 
out with Charles, the oldest of them, in my 
boat, almost all the time. We are also very 
busy, making and sailing little boats. I find 
my schooner very useful, and am glad I brought 
her, though she got badly broken on the way. 



32 



MEMOIR. 



Monday, 20th. This morning I took my first 
ride on pony-back. I think that soon I shall 
be able to ride quite well. 

Friday, 24th. This morning, father, aunt, I 
and uncle M. had a call from Gov. Van Sholten, 
in consequence of a letter of introduction from 
Mr. Van Buren, our President. His Excellency 
staid some time, and when he left, told father 
that he should be very glad to see him and his 
son (that meant me !) to his house on the hill, 
Buluzminda. After dinner, I had a row with 
Charles K. in my boat. We took father out a 
little way. We had one of those beautiful sun- 
sets to-night, which we used to see last year at 
west end, when the rays of the sun, after he 
had been down some time, shot up in the sky, 
all colored ; and little floating clouds were tinged 
with the most delicate colors. 

Saturday, 25th. After dinner, I carried aunt 
J. and Miss T. out to the bathing-house in my 
boat, where they staid some time, reading. 
The bathing-house is fitted up with a sofa, 
tables, chairs, spyglass ; and almost everything. 
Mr. K. was so kind as to send me the key of it, 
while I was off there, drawing. When the 
ladies came home, Charles and I went around, 
looking for shells. We got quite a lot. We 



MEMOIR. 33 

went in the boat, and when we saw one, I 
picked it up with my sticks. 

Sunday. This morning I got up at gun-fire, 
and went out to the bathing-house to draw. It 
was very early; the sun was not up. And 
when it did rise, I never saw anything look 
more beautiful. The water was all glazed over, 
like a looking-glass ; for there was no wind ; 
and when the sun shone upon it, it looked like 
a sheet of fire. When I had finished drawing, 
Charles and I played about in the boat, trying 
to shoot mullets with bows and arrows ; but we 
could not get near enough. 

St. Thomas, Wednesday, April 5th. We 
arrived here last night at twelve o'clock. We 
left Santa Cruz in the schooner Vigilant, at 
four in the afternoon, with a light wind, al- 
though it was fair. There was not much sea, 
so that I was not sick till about night. I 
amused myself with a monkey and two dogs, 
which were passengers as well as myself. The 
monkey* was a queer fellow. He ate in the 
most curious manner, as though he was troubled 
with poor teeth, putting his head on one side, 
and shutting his eyes when he brought his 
jaws together. I did not go to bed till seven 
o'clock, for the little time I was in the cabin 



34 MEMOIR. 



there was such a smell of bilge-water, that I 
was in no hurry to go in again, and when I did 
go in to bed, I found it was no imagination. 
There was a tremendous steam of sour sugar 
all the time, and when I dropped asleep for a 
minute, I was almost instantly awoke again; it 
was so hot, so steaming hot, that I really feared 
I should be melted. And then there were 
mosquitoes and fleas in abundance. At last I 
could stand it no longer ; so I got up and put 
on my jacket and great coat, and went on 
deck, where I found father and uncle M., for 
they also had been compelled to leave the cabin 
by the inconveniences therein. They soon fitted 
me up with a mattress and umbrella to keep 
off the dew, and there I slept till we arrived in 
the harbor. As soon as the anchor was down, 
we all went on shore in the little boat. It was 
just twelve o'clock when we stopped at Mrs. 
Miller's, where we were to stay, and after some 
little knocking we got in, had a room fitted for 
us, and were safely ensconced in a comfortable 
bed once more. But we did not sleep much 
even then, for what with the mosquitoes, an 
old cock crowing in the front entry, and filling 
the whole house with his melody, together with 
various other tributary sounds too numerous to 






MEMOIR. 35 

mention, sleep was driven from the house, or at 
least one part of it. 

After dinner, father, uncle and I went down 
to the King's wharf, took a boat and a negro to 
pull us, and went off to a Danish ship, in the 
harbor, where they left me to " take off the 
town/' as the negroes say. St. Thomas is a 
beautiful town, the most so of any in the West- 
Indies, so they say. It stands on three hills, 
with higher hills rising back of them, and 
partly enclosed in a fine land-locked harbor. 
The houses are mostly large and new, for a 
great part of the town was burnt down in 1833, 
and now no houses can be built, except of brick 
or stone, and fire-proof. There are a great 
many stores, and people from all parts of the 
world ; and one can buy almost anything that 
can be bought in New York or Boston. There 
are also many vessels of all descriptions here in 
the harbor, from the clumsy Dutchman to the 
graceful clipper, though at present there are less 
than usual. Generally there are forty or fifty sail 
of square riggers alone, besides a great number 
of sloops, and sharp, rakish schooners. One of 
them is beating out now, a sharp little thing, no 
larger than the Fawn. They say she is bound 
for the slave coast and trade. What a shame 



36 MEMOIR. 

that such things are permitted; but no proof 
can be found, or rather, the government officers 
wink at it, as bringing great profit to them. 
This is a little beauty of a schooner, and she 
slips through the water as easily as a bird 
through the air ; and yet, when I think of her 
object and destination, I almost wish the fort 
would fire at her, and blow her sky high, to 
imitate the birds in reality. 

When I had finished drawing, uncle and 
father came for me. They had been out among 
the ships and vessels. 

Friday. 7th. I got up very early this morn- 
ing, and went on the hill back of the house, to 
see a tower built by the pirates, who, in times 
past, had possession of St. Thomas. Black 
Beard's Tower it is called, from their chief, I 
believe. When I came to the top of the hill, 
— for it is quite a little walk up there, — I 
asked a negro if I could go up in the tower. 
He said the upper door was fastened, and that 
his master, who was asleep, had the key. I 
wanted him to ask his master for it, but he 
was afraid he would be "wexed," to use his 
own expression. However, I was determined 
not to have my walk for nothing ; so I went 
up inside of the tower, which seemed to be used 



MEMOIR. 37 

as a henroost or pigeonry, and found that the 
door was not locked at all. The next difficulty- 
was to open the shutters, which were hooked on 
the inside, and I thought would fall out if 1 
unhooked them. So I went down again to find 
some one to open them for me, but all were as 
cross as if they had just awoke, as I suppose 
they had. So back I came, determined to open 
them at any rate. I gave a tremendous push, 
after unhooking them, and off the shutters 
swung, on hinges, as convenient as possible. 
And a more beautiful view than that which 
opened before me I never saw. The town was 
beneath, and on two sides. The harbor below, 
spotted with many vessels and boats. Far off, 
in the offing, a man-of-war lay off and on with 
tall white sails and graceful motion, seeming 
like the guardian spirit of the harbor. A busy 
scene it was, and a very quiet one also. There 
was but little wind, which played gently over 
the water, as though it feared to ruffle and 
disturb its calm. 

I have seen nothing since I came here that 
reminded me so much of home and of Naushon, 
and you, mother ; for in all the beautiful things 
which I see, I think of you, and wish you were 
with me, to see them too. And I have seen 



38 MEMOIR. 

nothing that you would like more than this. 
I staid till the sun had risen from behind the 
hills, and then, as it grows hot very fast, I shut 
up my shutters, and came down. 

On returning from Santa Cruz, Mr. Swain 
and his son reached Old Point Comfort, in Vir- 
ginia, when Robert had the misfortune to break 
his leg. A letter written by his father at the 
time, thus describes it. 

" May 24th, 1837. This morning Robert had 
a fall on board the ship, that agonized every 
nerve in my frame. I was lying in my berth, 
and Julia's nurse was doing something in the 
state-room, which was separated from the 
hatch-way of the ship by a curtain that was 
drawn across at the time. I heard a fall, and 
the nurse screamed out, ' Master Robert has 
fallen down into the hold of the ship. 5 I shall 
never forget the pang of that moment. It was 
a concentration of the most intense agony. 
Confined with my lame feet, I had not the 
power to go to him. The next moment was 
Bob's voice, calling, l Father, I am not much 
hurt. ; Never was music like the sound of that 
voice. And the little fellow thought more of 
me than he did of himself. He is a noble boy, 






MEMOIR. 39 

with more presence of mind and fortitude than 
I ever saw. They brought him up, and, to my 
great joy, I found his head and body uninjured, 
but his lame leg was fractured. I had him im- 
mediately taken on shore, and, most fortu- 
nately, there is a very skilful surgeon at the 
fort, at Old Point Comfort. He got his clothes 
off, and, on examination, found it was broken 
just above the knee, and a simple square frac- 
ture. As soon as Robert left the ship, I dressed 
myself, and contrived to get on deck, was low- 
ered in a chair into the boat, and carried up 
from the shore. I got to the house just as they 
were on the point of setting it. This was done 
without any pain, and Robert is perfectly 
comfortable. His only trouble seems to be on 
my account and his mother's. This is a sad 
affair, but a mere trifle to what I feared when 
he fell; and in nine times out of ten, a boy 
could not have escaped with his life. The dis- 
tance was twelve feet at least. Robert, in com- 
ing down from the upper deck, slipped and lost 
his hold when about half way down, swung 
round back of the steps, and fell down the 
open hatch. There happened to be a large 
water cask directly under this. He struck upon 
the bilge, which made the blow a glancing one, 



40 MEMOIR. 

and saved his life. But for that he would 
have fallen on the stone ballast. How his 
head and every part of his body escaped injury 
I cannot conceive. It seems miraculous. I am 
writing by his bed-side, and he has just dropped 
asleep, and looks as if nothing had happened." 
Robert was detained here nearly a fortnight ; 
but his cheerfulness did not desert him, nor was 
he ever heard to make the least complaint. He 
was pleasantly situated at Old Point Comfort, 
which is a resort for visiters in the summer sea- 
son, who come there for the enjoyment of the 
sea breeze. His window looked out upon a 
quiet scene of green meadows and trees, among 
which was the Pride of India, whose blossoms 
filled the air with fragrance. By the kind and 
skilful attentions of his surgeon, Dr. A., he so 
far recovered at the end of a fortnight, as to be 
able to begin his journey homeward. His leg 
was protected by splints, and he was taken 
from his bed, and put into a chair, in which he 
was moved from place to place. As most of 
the journey could be performed by railroads and 
steamboats, he travelled without much suffering, 
though not without some inconvenience ; and 
the middle of June found the family once more 
at their island home. 



CHAPTER III. 

AT EXETER ACADEMY. 

Age 18. 

During the summer, Robert was usually em- 
ployed upon his lessons about four hours a day, 
and the only difficulty his teacher found was in 
preventing him from studying too much. He 
was not a boy of quick parts, but always re- 
tained what he had once learned. He had in 
everything a high standard ; and this was not 
merely a fine feeling, glowing like sunset clouds, 
only to fade out in darkness; but he was glad 
to go through any amount of labour that might 
assist him in gaining his ideal, and could not 
bear to leave anything half finished. In what- 
ever he undertook, whether in making a boat, 
in playing chess, or in his studies, he took 
always .a real pleasure in doing his best; and 
if that did not come up to his idea, he would 
repeat the experiment, and not rest satisfied till 
the end was gained. 

He loved knowledge for its own sake, and, 
having been accustomed to look upon an edu- 



42 MEMOIR. 

cation as consisting chiefly in learning to teach 
himself, he early acquired habits of application, 
which are of vastly more importance than any 
amount of knowledge. He usually studied in 
a room by himself, and when left for days, or 
even weeks, without a teacher, the hours set 
apart for study were none the less faithfully 
observed. He relished keenly amusements of 
almost every kind, but although left at liberty 
to do as he chose, it was not often that they 
could draw him away from his books, during 
the part of the day assigned to his studies. The 
love of excellence for its own sake, and the love 
of labor as subordinate to it, guided by a dis- 
criminating judgment, and great delicacy of 
taste and feeling, were the leading features of 
his mind, and they are qualities, which, when 
the opportunity is given, must lead to useful- 
ness and success. But, in his case, they were 
thwarted in their intellectual tendencies by oft- 
repeated disappointments. His term of study 
was cut short every day of his life ; and often, 
just as he was daring to hope that now he 
might go on with a firm step, his hopes were 
blighted by some new indication of disease, and 
he was obliged to spend weeks and months in 
entire cessation from study. But the qualities 



MEMOIR. 43 

themselves were not lost ; and in the develop- 
ment of character, through those repeated and 
severe disappointments, they accomplished a 
higher end than could ever be gained through 
the intellect alone. 

When he reached his eighteenth year he had 
really, on account of his health, had less time 
for study than most boys of twelve. He felt 
his deficiencies, and was exceedingly anxious 
to make them up. No boy could have a more 
pleasant home, or be more sensible of its advan- 
tages. The island, especially, by whose waters 
and woody dells he had mused and enjoyed so 
much, was an object of the fondest attachment, 
and he could leave it only with the greatest 
reluctance. But he felt that life had higher 
duties than mere enjoyment, and that though 
he might not be obliged to engage in a profes- 
sion, or by active business to secure a living, he 
must labor for his own present improvement. 
He could not bear the thought of being an 
ignorant or useless member of society ; nor 
could he believe that those whom fortune has 
most favored in their outward circumstances 
are to be dwarfed in their minds from the want 
9 of manly effort, or in any way to be exempted 
from the responsibilities that rest on others. He 



44 MEMOIR. 

could see no pathway to eminence but that 
which he should clear away by his own personal 
exertions. He was ready, therefore, to make any 
sacrifice of ease or convenience that might be 
required. And being convinced of the supe- 
rior advantages of a public over a private edu- 
cation, to one brought up as he had been, he 
decided to leave home, and in the fall of 1839, 
entered Phillips Exeter Academy. 

Here he had many trials, which his secluded 
home-life had heretofore exempted him from, 
and which he was not prepared for as other 
boys are. But these trials were soon overcome, 
and he enjoyed much, not only in his studies, 
but in the society of boys of his own age. His 
letters home will best express his schoolboy life. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

my dear mother, Exeter, Sunday, Sept. 22, 1839. 

.... This week has been the longest I ever 
spent, I think. From the time father left till 
yesterday, I have not kept the run of the days ; 
but I thought they would never get to a stop- 
ping place. When I came from school Satur- 
day noon, after having been frightened out of 
my wits by so many strange faces and dignified- 



MEMOIR. 45 

looking teachers, and found father gone and Mr. 
Morison gone, and not a single familiar face — 
every body and everything looking strange and 
unnatural — and feeling too, that I cared for 
nobody, and nobody cared for me, I must say 
that I felt more homesick than I ever expected 
to. I was really rejoiced to see a mosquito, 
although he did come to bite me. He looked 
like an old friend, and I was more glad to see 
him than I ever was to see a mosquito before. 
But in the afternoon I went to walk in the 
woods, and, coming back, stopped into Judge 
Smith's to pay my tuition, and I found that an 
excellent place to cure homesickness. They 
were all so kind and pleasant, and such a re- 
markably pleasant house and grounds. Before 
I came away, I was completely cured of all 
homesickness, and I have not had an attack of 
the disease since, only occasional touches now 
and then. 

Yesterday afternoon I spent at the Judge's 
too. He invited G. H. (who rooms with me, and 
whom I like very much.) and H. and myself 
up there to dinner. We spent the afternoon 
and evening there very pleasantly. The Judge 
is the most entertaining old man I ever saw, 
and his wife is also very agreeable. 



46 MEMOIR. 

Sundays we are not allowed to go out, 
walking or riding, except before and after pray- 
ers, which are held in the sehoolhouse, at seven 
in the morning and six in the afternoon. We 
have to go to church twice a day. I do not 
like not being allowed to walk ; and having to 
come home right after church in the afternoon, 
which is the best time in the whole week to 
walk. But it is a rule that is not attended to 
much, and I think I shall break it once in a 
while. I like my boarding-house very much. 
There is quite a pleasant garden attached to the 
house, and some very pleasant apple trees. And 
now, mother, I have come to the end of my 
paper, before I have made hardly a beginning 

of the many things I want to say to you 

But as I shall write to Mr. Morison, perhaps I 
have said enough. 

Your affectionate son, Robert. 



TO J. H. MORISON. 

Exeter, Sunday, Sept. 22, 1839. 

MY DEAR MR. MORISON, 

I received your letter yesterday, and, you 
may be sure, I was very, very glad to hear from 
you ; for, next to seeing my friends, hearing from 



M E M I R . 47 

them is the most agreeable thing that happens 
to me now. And yet I am not homesick at all ; 
at least, I have not been since you and father 
went home. Things have now got settled down 
into their ordinary flow. I have begun the 
iEneid, and say one lesson in that every morn- 
ing, together with a Greek lesson, and in the 
afternoon, a lesson in the Latin grammar. Mr. 
Soule seems very kind, but I miss very much 
the pleasant and free communication we have 
always had together, Mr. Morison. I was 
never so scared in my life as when he called me 
up to recite the first time. I knew my lesson, 
and yet I don't believe I recited five words 
right. Even my voice, of which I have little 
enough now at any time, failed me, and I went 
first on a high key, and then on a low one, and 
then on none at all, hopping about like one pos- 
sessed. But now I have got quite used to it, 
and also to studying in school, which I could 
not do at all at first, with so much going on 
around me. My chum I like very much. He 
is a boy with nothing to find fault with, at 

least I have seen nothing yet 

I see your brother quite often. I took a walk 
with him before breakfast this morning, and 
I like to be with him very much, for he seems 



48 MEMOIR. 

like you, Mr. Morison, only he will call me 
Swain, and seems to think that I am as old 
and know as much as he does. 



TO HIS FATHER. 

Exeter, Sunday, Sept. 29, 1839. 

You wanted me, father, to tell you exactly 
about my health, and I will try to do so. I do 
not think I am so strong, or quite as well as 
when I came. I miss the exercise I have been 
used to very much ; and, do what I will, I can- 
not be out, or take near as much as I have been 
accustomed to. And then the school-house is 
sometimes quite cold, and then again they make 
up a great fire, and get it as hot as an oven. 
And I don't like being confined to the hard 
benches and desks so much. But I am in 
hopes, after a while, I shall get used to it ; that 
is, to all the things together. 

You will tell me I must not study so much of 
the time as to injure my health, <fcc. ; but I 
have no choice. I am put into a class, and 
must go on with them, and get as long lessons 
as they do. I don't want to be left behind; 
and then I don't study much more than the 
rules of the school require, and not any more 



MEMOIR. 49 

than enables me to keep up with those I am 
with. Now if I can't study as much as that, I 
had rather leave the school at once than go lag- 
ging on behind. I like the school very much, 
and I should be very sorry to go away just 
when I get regularly to work. I have not got 
intimate with any of the boys yet ; not being 
able to join in their plays, (that is, kicking foot- 
ball,) I lose a good deal, both as to getting ac- 
quainted with them and as to exercise. I spent 
last evening at the Judge's very delightfully. 
The Judge, and particularly the young ladies, 
were very sociable. I have also been to Doctor 
Abbot's once or twice. Mrs. A. I like also. 
She seems like Mrs. F., and is very kind. 

But the bell hast just rung, and I must bid 
you good-by. 

Your most affectionate son, Bob. 



TO THE SAME. 



dear father, Exeter, Sunday, Oct. 6, 1839. 

I have made Sunday my writing day, so that 
you can expect a letter once a week regularly, 
and I shall expect you and Mr. Morison and 
mother to keep your part of the agreement. . . . 

Yesterday afternoon some of us boys, and I 



50 MEMOIR. 

among the rest, went out in the woods nutting. 
We had got a fine lot of nuts, and three of us 
were busily employed shelling them, while the 
other two were up in a tree near by, when sud- 
denly we heard a scream, and a cry that Sam 
Smith, one of the boys in the tree, and the 
Judge's nephew, had fallen off and hurt himself. 
We all ran immediately, and found him lying 
on the grass almost lifeless. I raised him up, 
but his arms hung to his side like pieces of 
rags, and his leg appeared to be broken. We 
instantly sent one boy to the nearest house, and 
another into town, almost three miles, for the 
doctor, while some of us staid to take care of 
him. They soon got a horse and wagon with 
a featherbed, and at last got him on it, although 
not without great pain. But he was stunned, 
and his sense of pain not so acute as it other- 
wise would have been. Even the jolting of the 
wagon did not affect him much. We carried 
him to Judge Smith's, and when the doctor 
came, he said both his arms were out of joint 
at the elbows, and one of them, as also his 
thigh, was fractured. Poor fellow ! only a lit- 
tle Avhile before he was a perfect picture of 
health and strength, a real don't-care, rough- 
and-tumble-foy ; the first of his size at foot-ball, 



MEMOIR. 51 

and all boys' games ; and now he must be 
suffering terribly. But the doctor set his limbs, 
and he is now doing very well. Now, father, 
I don't know what to say about myself. I 
think I am getting more used to things now 
than at first ; and I think I shall soon become 
acclimated to the coldness out of the house and 
in ; so that I shall not even think of giving up 
Exeter yet. I hope Mr. Morison will come 
here next Friday, for I want to see some one 
from home very much. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

my dear mother, Exeter, October, Friday, 11th. 

I was very glad to receive your affectionate 
letter, and sorry you did not write in better 
spirits ; for I would not have you so troubled 
about me, as your letter seems to indicate, on 
any account. 

I am going on very well and pleasantly 
enough. . And now that I have got used to it, I 
like the school too well to have any wish to 
leave it, or to spend the winter in New Bedford. 
So long as I stay, I would have you feel no 
uneasiness about me. As for my being un- 
happy, I never thought of such a thing; though 



52 MEMOIR. 

whether I can remain here all winter, is, I 
think, doubtful. I want very much to see Mr. 
Morison, and talk with him about this, and 
everything else, in fact. If, after all, he don't 
come, I shall be very much disappointed. 

Sunday, 13th. At that very minute Mr. Mor- 
ison walked in at the door. I never was more 
surprised or delighted in my life. My letter, as 
you may guess, was very quickly transferred 
from the out to the inside of my desk, where 
it has very quietly waited till this morning. I 
got excused from school as soon as I had recited 
my lessons, and spent the rest of the after- 
noon and part of the evening with him at 
Judge Smith's. He says, mother, that you have 
got an idea that I am very unhappy here, and 
that you are very much concerned about me. 
Now I don't think you have ever seen me un- 
happy two days together anywhere, not even 
at Old Point Comfort ; and why you can expect 

it of me here I don't see Now, mother, 

don't be concerned about my being unhappy 
any more. 

Good-by. From your most affectionate child, 

Robert. 



MEMOIR. 53 

TO THE SAME. 

Exeter, October, Sunday, 27th, 1839. 

. . . After all, my dear mother, I get 
along very well as to inconveniences ; and, as 
I have told you before, I have nothing besides 
to complain of, and I have no doubt but I shall 
spend as pleasant a winter here as at home. 
Last evening you and C. would have laughed 
to have seen me sitting by the fire, quietly 
darning a pair of stockings, with two great 
holes in the toes. But, nevertheless, I don't 
believe C. could have done it better herself. 
. . . This morning I made my bed, (hav- 
ing got tired of waiting for the girl to make it,) 
and was proceeding to clear up the room, when 
she came. 

Although Saturday does not come but once 
a week here, yet the weeks are shorter than 
they ever were at New Bedford. I never saw 
time go so fast as it does here ; and yet, when 
I look back, I think I have been here an age ; 
and when I look forward, I think there is an 
age to come. But that will soon be gone ; and 
then — and then I shall be all ready for what 
comes next. 

Good-by. Your most affectionate 

Robert. 



54 MEMOIR, 



TO. J. H. MORISON. 

Exeter, Friday, Nov. 27, 1839. 



MY DEAR MR. MORISON, 



I ought not to have left so good a letter 
as yours unanswered and unthanked so long. 
And now I will make the best excuse in my 
power, that never-failing one, want of time — 
and answer it forthwith. 

To begin with the most important. As for 
my studies, they are advancing tolerably well, 
though I expect some trouble next week. I 
have finished the fifth book in Virgil, just got 
the rules for scanning, and shall begin to apply 
them next week. As yet, I cannot see into it 
at all, and I fear a terrible screwing Monday. 
Virgil goes very easy now; I get from one 
hundred to one hundred and twenty lines, and 
like it very much. Greek is hard. That 's the 
conclusion I have come to, and having two 
lessons in it every day, I have a good opportu- 
nity of finding out. I am now in Mythology. 
We get on pretty fast, but, as regards myself, 
not very thoroughly. I do not have time to 
study it out of school much, for it takes me 
all the evening to get my Latin. I have had 
to speak twice this term — once, a piece from 
the Lady of the Lake ; and last, the speech of 






MEMOIR. 55 

Antony, in Julius Caesar. I got through it, 
and that is a good deal to say. The first time 
I struck into the wrong pitch of voice, and got 
stuck there. If I tried to go higher, I squeaked 
out sharp ; if lower, I made a noise like that 
squab heron you caught last summer ; and if I 
made an attempt to give a little force or strength 
to my voice, it slumped through altogether. 
There I was, stuck. I said off my piece, and 
went to my seat as quick as I could. 

Only two weeks more, Mr. Morison, and I 
shall be with you and at home. I shall value 
the least thing in the house, more than I did all 
New Bedford before I left. I have been think- 
ing over this evening, how everything would 
look when I first get back. The trees I shall 
pass by, going up the yard ; the house ; the 
steps, with the twirl and the scraper at the 
bottom. Then in the house, the new painted 
entry ; the table, with father's and your hat 
on it; and our room, Mr. Morison, with the 
green doors, table, book-case, pictures. But I 
have forgot the figure of that new paper which 
troubles me. Only three weeks more ! Not 
that I am homesick at all ; for after I have 
been at home three weeks, I expect I shall 
want to get back again. We have fine times 



56 MEMOIR. 

here, H. and I, when we sit down in the even- 
ing to study, with a good fire in the stove, and 
plenty of wood in the box ; enough light, or, as 
father says, "good light, and enough of it," 
and everything pleasant and comfortable. If 
we only have a pocket-handkerchief apiece, we 
are quite happy. 

My lesson in scanning haunts me to-night. 
I cannot help thinking of it every few minutes. 
But, only two weeks more! comes in at the 
other door of my thoughts, and is much the 
pleasantest of the two. 

Your most affectionate friend and pupil, 

Robert. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

dear mother, Sunday, Jan. 25, 1840. 

. . . Everything goes on the same here ; 
cold weather, and last Wednesday night a snow 
storm, such as you don't see in New Bedford 
often. The snow is a foot deep or more on a 
level, and in some places deep enough to almost 
bury you. It was quite a sight to see us boys 
all go hopping off to school the next morning. 
A thick snow storm still, for it lasted all the 
morning. And such a shouting and tumbling. 



MEMOIR. 57 

Sometimes a boy got almost swamped in a drift, 
and then we would have him for a laughing- 
stock, till a better one occurred. As for walk- 
ing, either for exercise or pleasure, that is out 
of the question. If I can get to school and back 
again safe, it is as much as I can expect, and 
more than often falls to my share. For what 
with snow and ice, crutches, coats, and canes, 
and about five pounds of Latin and Greek, 
(which are very hard and heavy commodities,) 
strung around my neck in a great green bag, 
and dangling in the way; besides a good deal 
of dignity to support, being now a member of 
the F. S. T., or Golden Branch Society, to 
which I was admitted a week ago yesterday — 
what with all these things, it is not to be won- 
dered at that I sometimes have rather hard 
work to keep up a dignified and upright posi- 
tion. Yesterday afternoon some of us boys had 
a fine snow-balling frolic, and some quite good 
fun for Saturday afternoon. I have entirely 
recovered from my cold, and am now as well as 
ever I was. And also, tell Mr. Morison, Greek 
begins to come easier. We are in the Minora 
now, and I really take some pleasure getting 
it out, which is more than I ever have before. 
Yours, affectionately, Robert Swain. 



58 MEMOIR. 

TO J. II. MORISON. 

dear mr. morison. Exeter, Feb. 1, 1840. 

. . . I will try to write to you as freely 
as I can, and if my letters are not so well ex- 
pressed and interesting as you could wish, yet 
you must take the will for the deed. 

To begin with my studies. I am getting on 
very well ; but I fear I am rather a slow 
scholar. I can't get my lessons as quickly as 
the other boys ; and so, while they have a 
good deal of time out of school, for reading, 
attending lectures, or anything else that is going 
on, I have to stay at home, digging on my old 
Latin and Greek. And then I don't know my 
lessons any better than the others, after all. 
Not that they are hard, the Latin at least ; but 
somehow I can't get them without spending a 
good deal of time. All the time in school, ex- 
cept just before reciting Latin, I spend on my 
Greek, and that is barely sufficient to get it in. 
Now there is not a boy in my class that has to 
study so much time to so little purpose. If by 
studying more, I could get my lessons corres- 
pondingly better, I should not mind it ; but, as 
it is, I don't think it fair. The probable cause 
is, that I cannot remember the meaning of 






MEMOIR. 59 

words, especially Greek words. But as you 
cannot offer any remedy for my want of mem- 
ory, I will say satis 

Yours, most affectionately, 

Robert Swain. 



TO HIS FATHER. 

dear father, Exeter, March 8, 1840. 

. . . I was quite glad to get the scolding 
you sent about my Avriting, for I know I de- 
serve it, and should have been disappointed if 
it had not come. I have nothing to say in de- 
fence, except that now we have compositions to 
write, and I cannot write them, and take pains 
about my writing. It is just the same with let- 
ters. After I get interested in them, I never 
can think about the writing ; and if I do, the 
letters are good for nothing. So I have deter- 
mined to let it go, consoling myself with the re- 
flection that almost all great literary men are 
poor writers. The spelling I will try to correct 
as much as possible : for I feel the trouble, not 
to say disgrace of it not a little. To have Mr. 
French hand me my composition, and ask me 
with a very sober face how to spell half 
a dozen little words, which I should have 



60 MEMOIR. 

thought too small to have a place in my mem- 
ory, is rather mortifying, you must allow. 

What do you think of my staying at Nau- 
shon next summer ? And what does Mr. Mori- 
son think about it, for I suppose he is the one 
to decide whether it will be best for me or not. 
It seems to me I shall know how to value Nau- 
shon more than I ever did before. I have had 
more pleasure there in one afternoon than I 
have had here this whole winter. That is, one 
sort of pleasure ; for though I have not had so 
much fun } yet I think I never spent a winter so 
profitably, or with so much good to myself. It 
has taught me to value Mr. M.'s teaching also ; 
and if I stay at home, I shall want him to be 
more strict, to make me study harder than I 
used to with him. 



TO J. H. MORISON. 

my dear mr. morison, Exeter, March 15, 1840. 

I can hardly believe it is so long a time since 
you were here. The weeks fly round like a 
great wheel, so swiftly, that were it not for two 
spokes being a little longer than the others, and 
giving us a jolt now and then, we should not 
know how fast it did go round. I think I never 



MEMOIR. 61 

passed so short a winter, though I may have 
pleasanter ones. 

You ask me whether I can study as well at 
Naushon alone, as here at school. Whether I 
can or not, I don't know; but most certainly I 
did not, or I should and ought to have been 
fitted for college by next commencement. And 
I am sorry enough about it, too. But perhaps 
it is not fair to compare the summer with the 
winter studying , and, never having been here 
a summer term, I cannot tell how it would be. 
You had better decide on whatever you think 
best ; and as long as it is for me to spend any 
time on the island, you may be sure I shall be 
satisfied with your decision. 

Last night we had quite a heavy fall of snow, 
and this morning the ground was covered six or 
eight inches deep. I never saw the trees so 
completely loaded as they were early this morn- 
ing. Every little branch had its back covered 
with as much snow as it could possibly bear, 
and some of them were bent almost double with 
the weight. Old Winter seemed to have come 
back in good earnest. But we gave him such 
a warm reception, that he was glad to be off 
again. And now he has withdrawn his forces, 
except a few straggling companies, who are 



62 MEMOIR. 

scattered about the field of battle ; and they 
take every opportunity to run off down the 
hills, and escape by the river as fast as they 
can. It is getting rather late now, and mother 
would say it was time for me to go to bed ; and, 
as I am of the same opinion, I will bid you good 
night. 

Yours, most affectionately, 

Robert. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

dear mother, Exeter, March 30, 1840. 

I have about half an hour before school time, 
and I don't think of any more profitable way 
to spend it, than by telling you how well I am, 
how pleasantly everything goes on, and (what 
follows of course) how fast the time flies. To 
begin with the first, since you generally have 
the most fears about that. Though I may not 
be quite so fleshy as a certain person, whom I 
believe we are both acquainted with, yet I have 
not been so free from all colds, and everything 
approaching to them, this year at least. And 
it is not because I don't have time and oppor- 
tunity enough, for we have had a continued 
succession of snow and rain, and weather of all 



MEMOIR. 63 

sorts and descriptions. There was a change of 
forty degrees between the thermometer one day 
and the next. The birds all came, made their 
arrangements for building, engaged rooms, &c, 
and a few days after, the snow was lying on 
the ground a foot deep — capital sleighing — 
and the robins looking round, quite amazed at 
the sudden change. 

Wednesday. I received your letter to-day, 
mother, and thank you for it; though I am 
afraid the easterly weather had some effect on 
your spirits, just tfren. I would not have you 
concerned about me. As I said before, I am 
more free from everything like a cold than I 
was any time last winter, or spring, or summer 
either. 



FROM HIS JOURNAL. 



April 9th, 1840. Took a walk round by 
the Judge's. Stopped a few moments at the 
grave-yard, and found the tomb of John Phil- 
lips, the founder of Phillips Exeter Academ}^ 
which suggested sundry moralizing reflections, 
such as would naturally occur. For I know of 
nothing that can call up the past, present and 
future more strongly than a grave-yard. Truly 



64 MEMOIR. 

a man is known by his works. Not only while 
living, but even after he himself has ceased his 
labors, his character is known, and his influ- 
ence is still widely extended by the works he 
has left. Such a man as Mr. Phillips exerts an 
influence over the whole country, though his 
active labors have ceased long since. " Such a 
man never dies." 

But, fearing I should lose my breakfast, I 
hurried home. Alas, for moralizing ! 






TO HIS FATHER. 

dear father, April, 26, 1840. 

. . . I am longing for vacation. This 
week, that has just past, has seemed longer 
than the last four. I am afraid the fishing will 
be over before I get home. . . . Every time 
I think of our Naushon fishing excursion last 
May, and every time one of these warm, mild, 
summer days make their appearance, Latin and 
Greek seem very dull in comparison to the many 
images fancy conjures up. But though the 
next ten days may seem as long as twenty 
common ones, yet they will have an end some 
time, and that cannot be very far off. 



MEMOIR. 65 

We are having a beautiful thunder-shower 
here now, and I must stop to look out and 
watch it. So, good night. 

Yours, most affectionately, 

Robert Swain. 



TO MISS A. M. D. 

dear annie, Exeter, Tuesday, June 9, 1840. 

. . . I was sitting quietly by my window, 
getting out, as the phrase is here, a lesson in 
Sail ust, when I was suddenly roused by cries 
of distress, and, looking out, saw a robin hop- 
ping, fluttering, and screaming from branch to 
branch, on an apple-tree, near by ; and, climb- 
ing up the tree, was a large black cat, slowly 
and stealthily creeping along towards his nest, 
and looking very much ashamed of what she 
was doing, as I have no doubt she was. I 
called to my chum H., who was in the room. 
He snatched up the tongs, being the only wea- 
pon at hand, and ran to the window ; but find- 
ing the tongs could not reach twenty feet out of 
the window, and as they were not particularly 
w^ell calculated to send flying through the thick 
branches of an apple-tree, which he at first 
proposed to do, they were thrown down, and 



66 MEMOIIt. 

he looked about for something else. Nothing 
was to be found but Latin and Greek gram- 
mars, lexicons, &c, and they, not being used to 
flights of fancy or reality, could hardly have 
borne so great a transition. Seeing nothing 
could be done here, I ran down stairs into the 
garden, and, snatching up a stone, threw, or 
rather fired it, as the boys would say, at the 
cat. Now some ill-natured persons would call 
it luck, "all chance," but I say it was pure 
skill, and nothing else. Be that as it may, the 
stone struck the feline monster, and down she 
came tumbling to the ground, and then sneaked 
off into a hole under the house, to brood over 
her misfortune. " Cruel boy," you will say; 
but if you could have heard the rejoicings of 
the robin, you would soon have forgotten, at 
least disregarded, the injured state of poor 
pussy's feelings. 

Exeter is quite a different place from what it 
was last term. Summer has thrown a green 
veil over everything, which very much im- 
proves the appearance of the good town. I 
wonder some of the houses do not feel envious, 
and take root, and put forth leaves themselves. 
Some of them are irregular, and rough enough 
for trees now ; and nature would furnish, for 



MEMOIR. 67 

nothing, that which, they seem to think costs 
a great deal, a coat of paint. 

Every time I look out our window, and see 
the trees, and sky, and everything looking so 
beautiful, it sets quite a train of thought in mo- 
tion through my brain — something like a 
steam-engine, running round a circle, with a 
long train of cars attached thereto. Naushon 
being the engine, takes the lead, drawing after 
it a long train of boats, birds, fish, flesh, and 
fowl, and many other things too numerous to 
mention. All of which generally ends in my 
going to the table, taking up the almanac, and 
calculating to an hour when I shall get home. 



CHAPTER IV. 

CONTINUATION OF HIS SCHOOL-BOY DAYS AT EXETER 
ACADEMY. 

Age 18-19. 

In the month of June Robert returned home 
to spend the summer months at Naushon. Find- 
ing that he could not be prepared for entering 
college at the next commencement, as was his 
first intention, he concluded to study more lei- 
surely on account of his health, and spend the 
summer at home, continuing his studies under 
Mr. M.'s instruction. While at Naushon, he 
attempted to keep a journal, but he was too 
happy in the present to take much note of the 
past. After commencing and persevering in it 
awhile, he says, " Alas ! for my journal. I find 
the more I enjoy, the less I write. And now, I 
have enjoyed so much, and written so little, 
that it is almost impossible for me to remember 
half what I have done." 



FROM HIS JOURNAL. 

Naushon, Wednesday, June 24th, 1840. I 
arrived at Naushon to-day from Exeter, via 



MEMOIR. 69 

New Bedford and Milton. And as this is the 
last summer I shall probably spend here for 
several years, I propose keeping a slight account 
of the occurrences, accidents, exploits, &c. that 
may chance to happen in the course of the 
same; particularly those in which "ego ipse" 
am concerned. Not, however, with any idea 
of publication, for these remarks are intended 
and written for no one but myself, and if any- 
body should have the temerity to read thus far, 
either from chance or evil design, let him pause. 
And if, after what I have said, he turns over 
this leaf, let it be at his peril; he has chosen a 

course that will inevitably lead to , the 

end of this book, if he continues long enough. 
Therefore I say, beware ! 

Friday, 26th. This morning I waked up 
the inhabitants of Bull's Neck, with dogs and 
gun, in vain pursuit of wild cats and birds. 
But as they would not be brought down, after 
being woke up, I returned early, having effected 
nothing. ' Then, after some time spent in get- 
ting together oars, sails, ballast, &c. I had a 
sail in my boat ; and stopping at BrownelFs, 
shot a rice-bird, a pepe, and chased a flying, 
whistling, liquidizing, rakish-looking bird all 
over Uncatena, who always kept just out of 



70 MEMOIR. 

gun-shot, and flew round and round me, as 
though he was trying to charm me away, by 
encircling me with a spell. 

In the afternoon I took cousin Eliza G. over 
to Woodville, to the steamboat, and had a fine 
sail. We returned via Lone-rock passage, and 
coming through the hole, met skipper Gifford, 
with three large bass, which he had caught 
while we were going and gone, one of them 
weighing twenty-seven and a quarter pounds; 
I took it on board, and shall carry it to Bedford 
to-morrow in the Fawn, if she goes. 

Tuesday, June 30. The Fawn went off last 
Saturday, and I went in her. The next after- 
noon, as father w r as not going on to Naushon 
for several days, he put the Fawn in my charge, 
and said he had no objection to our going upon 
a sword-fishing excursion, if we could get hands 

enough to manage her So we started off 

and arrived at Naushon quite early in the after- 
noon. After sunset we set out on our cruise, 
but by the time we got out of the harbor the 
wind died away, a dead calm, so we cast anchor 

and waited for the wind About twelve 

o'clock they got under weigh with a light breeze, 
and when I got up in the morning we w^ere off 
the west end of the island, beating up towards 



MEMOIR. 71 

Cuttyhunk. And a fine sail we had too, over 
the waters. The sky and the sea were bright 
and blue, and here and there the wl]ite sails of 
a sloop, or boat, some near by, and some far off 
in the distance. And then the islands stretched 
away along on our left, just mellowed by the 
distance we were from them ; so that instead of 
sand-hills, barely covered with grass, they look- 
ed like fairy lands, soft with velvet and purple. 
And our picture, not like the pictures on mother 
earth, was constantly changing. As we passed 
on, the islands assumed different shapes ; as 
some were left behind us, new ones appeared. 
And the vessels, too, were gradually left behind. 
One by one, the Fawn came up with them, 
passed them, and went on her course. The 
wind freshened, and we soon went skimming 
along, now rising gradually over the ocean 
swell, that came heaving in, — -now shooting 
down from our temporary elevation, the white 
sails filling and swelling out with the wind, 
and careening her over till the water came gur- 
gling into the lee-scuppers, and her gunwale 
almost touched the waves. We cruised about 
some time without finding anything, and I laid 
down on the deck and went to sleep. The wind 
still freshened, and instead of gliding gracefully 



72 MEM 01 R . 

over the long ocean waves, we plunged tearing 
into them, while the spray flew over her bows, 
and the wind whistled through the rigging. 
Suddenly William sang out, " There 's a sword- 
fish. All hands upon deck, and awake. Hard 
up your helm. 77 I jumped off my berth, on the 
larboard seat, and seized the helm, as that had 
been appointed my office. " Steady as you go, 
luff a little, hard up." And then as we rose on 
a wave, down went the iron. But the vessel 
was smoking and pitching along, and the mo- 
tion was so unsteady, that he did not hit. The 
weapon was buried, not in the fish, but in the 
water ; so we luffed up in the wind, and lower- 
ed down our foresail, and chased him again: 
but it was all to no purpose. So after cruising 
about some time longer, we steered down Sound 
for home, where we arrived in due season, after 
spending an hour, tide-bound, in Wood's Hole, 
with much pleasure, little glory, and less profit. 
Sunday, July 26. I have got sadly behind 
in my diary, and in truth there is so much go- 
ing on here, it is almost impossible for me to 
keep up regular. I have had several pleasant 
excursions lately. One sword-fishing voyage 
with Capt. A., J. M. F. and father. We left the 
island on Wednesday last, and got off about ten 



MEMOIR. 73 

miles from Gay Head that evening. And most 
beautiful it was there too. The setting sun far 
off in the west, and the white sails of numerous 
vessels all around, while the Fawn, with her 
light sails all set, and swelling with the breeze, 
glided gracefully along; parting the blue waves 
from her prow, and shaking them off with a 
coquettish toss of the head, as a beauty flings 
back the dark ringlets from her forehead. And 
a beauty she is too, as free and. graceful as any 
of them, with this advantage also, that she is 
not only fitted for the calm and gentle sailing 
of summer, but when the clouds gather round, 
the sea dashes its foaming billows over her, and 
the storm of winter comes down with all its 
fury, then she breasts it merrily; stooping her 
dark side to the water, with bending masts, and 
quivering frame ; the sea flashing from her 
prow, and the white waves boiling and curling 
in her wake, 

" She walks the waters like a thing of life, 
. And seems to dare the elements to strife." 

Aug. 25. On Tuesday we started for a sword- 
fishing voyage off Nantucket Shoals, and so on 
to Nahant. We left Naushon with a party 
consisting of nine persons, and embarked on 
board the Fawn for a regular cruise. After go- 



74 MEMOIR. 

ing through Wood's Hole, we stood on to 
Holmes's Hole, where we took on board the 
pilot, whom we found on acquaintance to be 
about the same as no pilot at all. When he, 
with his bundle, hat, valise and pocket spy- 
glass was safely on board, we bore away for 
the Shoals. Just before sunset we came up with 
the light-ship, a clumsy-looking vessel, anchor- 
ed out in the middle of the ocean, it seemed to 
us, and it must seem so to those on board of 
her. Five or six men there were of them, shut 
up in the hulk of a vessel, pitching and rolling 
to and fro all the time, and with the aggrava- 
tion of seeing their fellow-creatures pass by, as 
it were just so that they should not forget there 
were others in the world besides themselves. 
And only seeing them pass too — no stop to the 
winged messengers; on, on they go. I would 
not live in one of those things for all the gold 
in the universe, and how others can, I don't see. 
When we had passed the light-ship, I went out 
on the bowsprit, to admire the clouds and the 
sunset. There was a splendid, white cloud in 
the north-east, which, continually changing in 
the sunlight, seemed to swell out and enlarge 
with the most beautiful alternations of light and 
shade, till, it appeared like a palace worthy of 



MEMOIR. 75 

the spirits of air to inhabit. But as the sun 
went down, my cloud took a darker aspect, and 
began to extend along to the north and west, 
farther : and soon others appeared, till we be- 
gan to think it was inhabited by spirits of an- 
other sort, and of a corresponding color, and 
our pilot began to talk of Holmes's Hole, of 
safe harbors, and in fact, seemed to regret very 
much that he was not in one. It was now 
about dark, and the wind was rapidly increas- 
ing, when, on account of the pilots fears and 
predictions, the order was given to lower away 
the foresail and tack ship for Holmes's Hole 
again. In the night we passed the light-ship 
several times, as fathers words or the pilot's 
fears predominated ; but finally, as there was 
not much appearance of a storm after all, we 
went on our voyage, and the next morning we 
were off the Shoals. This fact I was made ac- 
quainted with by the increased motion of the 
vessel, long before I knew where we were. 
And that day I shall always remember with 
pleasure; though at the time, I did not enjoy 
it hardly at all, on account of sea-sickness. . . . 
In the morning I was brought on deck only by 
the knowledge that there were whales in sight. 
And I hardly got there before one rolled his 



76 



MEMOIR. 



great glistening back out of the water, and then 
slowly disappeared again, so close to the vessel, 
that we could almost have harpooned him. It 
was a fine sight, and there were many more of 
them all around us. The sea was dark blue, 
with a short pitching swell, and a rough look. 
And then every few minutes, one of these great 
monsters would appear, opening the waters with 
a lashing sound like the combing over of a large 
wave on the beach. And the contrast between 
his great black body and the blue water around 
him ! and yet it seemed just the place for hijan. 
I should like to be a whale, to feel so indepen- 
dent as these fellows were, and so strong ; but 
I would keep a sharp look-out for these Nan- 
tucketers. 

There was a good breeze, so we stood towards 
the cod-fishing ground, to catch some fish for 
dinner. Father was unwilling to spend much 
time in that business, as the wind was evidently 
decreasing, and he feared we should not be able 
to get on to the sword-fishing ground; so, as 
soon as we had caught five or six, we drew our 
foresheet, and stood on. We had gone but little 
way, with a light breeze, and that dying, when 
the man on the bowsprit sang out, " There 's a 
sword-fish." And there he was ; a large, black 



M E M O I R . 77 

looking fellow, swimming along, right ahead, 
entirely unconscious of our approach; and when 
we got still nearer, he did not pay the least at- 
tention to us till the bowsprit was right over 
him ; and then it was too late. William was 
watching his slightest movement, with a coil of 
rope in one hand and a sharp iron in the other ; 
and when he was directly under him, raised his 
iron high, poised it, and sent it down, and the 
fish sprang forward with a foot of it buried in 
his flesh. Cl Hurrah! we've got him now," 

was the shout 

We cruised about till four o'clock in the after- 
noon without seeing any more fish, and by that 
time the wind all left us, or there was so little 
that we scarcely moved. The sea was smooth 
and glazed on the surface, and yet heaving 
with the never-ceasing ocean swell, while all 
around us were cod and mackerel fishermen ; 
some far off in the distance, some so near that 
we could see the men on board. Father count- 
ed eighty of them in sight at one time. It was 
a beautiful scene. The sun was making his 
farewell bow to the sea before retiring to rest, 
and the sea had smoothed down her wrinkles, 
put on her most smiling face to bid him good- 
night. And the fish too, and the fishermen, 



78 MEMOIR. 

and all her courtiers, had taken advantage of 
the lady's good humor, she, doubtless, being 
pleased and flattered by the attentions of so fine 
a gallant. The whales and the sword-fish had 
all come up to see the flirtation. The stormy 
petrel and the white sea-gulls were hovering 
round, waiting to carry soft messages, and catch 
the last lingering glance of the royal beau. 



The following extract shows that, amidst all 
the enjoyments of this outward world, Robert was 
cherishing within a life that must gain strength 
and beauty as the things of time should pass 
away. The reflections are to be considered as 
of a general character, rather than as applying 
to the particular instance before him. 

Naushon, July 10, 1840. This last week has 
been an eventful one. We were called off, 
mother and I, (for father had gone before,) in 

the first part of the week, being very sick. 

It was Sunday evening when the Fawn arrived 
at New Bedford, and I never had a more calm 
and beautiful sail than from Palmer's island up 
to the wharf. We just moved along with a 
scarcely perceptible breeze, the sails hanging 
idly to the mast, and the water calm as a 



M E BI O I R . / 9 

mirror. William and I were the only sailors, 
and as each knew what to do, there were no 
harsh orders or unnecessary noise, and every- 
thing went on quietly. There seemed to be a 
tacit agreement between the land and the sea, 
that nothing should disturb the serenity of the 
evening. The sound of the tolling bells came 
over the water, softened and mellowed. The 
noise of the town, and even the barking of a 
dog, was not unpleasant to the ear. All seemed 
to feel that it was Sunday evening, and should 
be kept quiet and calm. And not all either ; for 
then a boat passed us, with some girls and noisy 
sailors, and the sound of their voices, and the 
splashing of their oars, disturbed the tranquil- 
lity of our scene. But soon they were passed, 
and distance, softening their voices, brought 
them to us so mellowed, that even they did not 
seem at variance with the evening. We met 

at the wharf, who told us was more 

comfortable ; but it was only a temporary 
change. 'Soon he was worse again; and Tues- 
day morning, he died. It is a simple sentence 
that, and often used with hardly a thought of 
what it means. But there are not two words 
in our language that express so much. He 
died ! Taken away from the midst of life's 



80 MEMOIR. 

busy scenes, from his cares, his business, his 
troubles, how is it possible that a man can 
commune with the pure spirits of heaven? How 
can one be fitted to enjoy their pleasures and to 
be like them, who is suddenly snatched from 
this world, where all his thoughts are centred, 
and all his desires and wishes fixed ? It would 
seem as though he must be unable to enjoy, and 
unfitted to appreciate, anything there. But it is 
the outward man that departs ; and how can we 
tell what the inward immortal spirit is ? and how 
can we tell what noble thoughts and how firm a 
reliance on Providence may lie concealed in that 
heart which is now gone ? — concealed only be- 
cause circumstances have not called them forth ! 
Such heavy blows are needed, to make us feel 
that there is another life, for v/hich we must be 
constantly preparing. We know it now; our 
mind and our reason tell us it is true, and 3^et 
without some such calamity to bring it vividly 
before us, we should not realize it. And even 
now, though we may place it first in our minds, 
and resolve that it shall influence all our actions, 
yet other thoughts come in, and crowd it up in 
a corner, till it is covered up, and lost sight of 
again, by the many thoughts and pleasures with 
which our every-day life is filled. 



MEMOIR. 81 

TO J. H. MORISON. 

Exeter, Sunday evening, Nov. 1840. 



DEAR MR. MORISON. 



. . . I have been reading your " Classic 
Poets/' which I think is a real Tantalus, in the 
active voice. It gives you nice tit-bits and ex- 
tracts, just enough to make you want more. I 
begin to like Greek now. It seems a language 
of poetry when you get through the gulf of 
grammar that surrounds it. I mean to make 
quite a Greek scholar yet. I should like to get 
the Homeric poems, and read them too. I am 
going to read Milton this winter. I have got 
one volume of Herodotus to finish yet. I want 
to read Franklin's Life, of which we have a 
fine copy in the library ; I want to read some of 
Rollin again; I want to read the History of 
England and France ; I want to read every- 
thing, and I have no time to read it in. 

O, how I wish I had a lathe to turn out time 
with. I'd fix a steam engine to it, and the way 
I 'd heap up bushel baskets full would be a cau- 
tion to beginners. I must say one word to scold 
at the Georgics: it will really do me good. Of 
all the Latin that ever I studied, they are the 
driest, toughest, most uninteresting, and most 
unpoetical. What Virgil should try to twist 



82 MEMOIR. 

such a subject into poetry for, I don't see. I 
can't make them go, any how. I owe him a 
grudge, for I have been screwed every lesson 
that I have recited in them 



TO HIS FATHER. 

dear father, Exeter, Friday, Nov. 27, 1840. 

You say, if you had known that I was out of 
school, you certainly would have come down 
here. If you had, and on that account, I would 
not have owned you. Come down here, just 
because I was out of school for a day or two ! 
. . . If you want to know what was the 
matter, the doctor said I was a little bilious; and 
so, doctor-like, gave me a dose of medicine, 
which I, like a good boy, SAvallowed with many 
woful faces, and by which I was made dread- 
fully sick. The next day he gave me another, 
which I, remembering my former experience, 
carefully administered in a nice bit of turkey to 
our old dog Rollo ; whereby he went moping 
about the house on the following day, with a 
most submissive expression of countenance, and 
with chops as long as a loco-foco ; and on the 
same day I went to school. 

This is the last letter you may expect from 



MEMOIR. 83 

me, till New Year's, at least, for fear of causing 
you any more frights. If I go to school, you 
are afraid I shall injure my precious self study- 
ing too hard. If I stay at home, you know I 
must be dreadful sick, because I don't go to 
school. Please tell me what I am to do. . . 



TO HIS MOTHER. 



my dear mother, Exeter, Jan. 14, 1841. 

I arrived here safe, in spite of your fears, and 
you see that almost the first thing I do is to 
obey your directions; so you may conclude I 
am safe, in mind as well as body. 

I must confess that I felt a little homesick 
yesterday afternoon. When I had unpacked 
my trunk, and arranged my things, and the 
reality of the long sixteen weeks began to ap- 
pear, you will not wonder that my thoughts 
should turn upon home — the pleasant vacation 
that I have just passed, and the time that must 
elapse before another will come. That is one 
of the advantages of going away to school — 
you learn what a blessing home is. And I do 
not believe there is any other way by which 
you can be made to appreciate it so fully. 
Homesickness, however, does not last long with 



84 MEMOIR. 

me, and, now that I have got settled down in 
my regular Exeter duties, I would not be at 
home if I could 



TO THE SAME. 
dear mother, Exeter, Feb. 14, 1841. 

. . . I see very little company this term. 
Hav'nt been to the Judge's but once, and Dr. 
Abbot's but once since I came back. The 
evening is the only time we have for writing ; 
and when I get a good cheerful fire in my 
room, the lamps lighted, and books all ready 
On the table, I do hate to leave so many friends, 
"silent friends" though they are. I am get- 
ting along very well here now ; though I some- 
times think I look rather thin. But that I at- 
tribute to the want of exercise ; and as soon as 
it comes spring, and we get all the snow off the 
ground, I intend to make up for lost time in that 
respect. The ground has been covered with 
snow here for these two weeks past. Most ex- 
cellent sleighing it is, but very poor walking. 
The snow fell a foot deep or more, so that it is 
impossible to walk anywhere out of the beaten 
road ; and that is slippery, and precious little 
fun. I find the cold Exeter weather agrees 



MEMOIR. 85 

with me much better than the warm New Bed- 
ford weather, of which we have had quite a 
specimen all through January. I go out here 
in the coldest of it without an overcoat, and 
never experience any inconvenience; but as 
soon as the sloppy time comes, I am sure to 
catch cold 



TO A SCHOOL-MATE. 

dear e., Philadelphia, March 30, 1841. 

You will be surprised, no doubt, to receive a 
letter from me, dated at this good city; but 
have patience, and I will tell you all. You 
know I left Exeter very unexpectedly, and be- 
fore I got to Boston the measles came out on 
my face. I arrived at home without any diffi- 
culty, however, and in a week or ten days I 
was so far recovered as to go out. But in some 
way or other I took cold, which brought on a 
fever and that confined me to the house about 
as much longer, and, in fact, I just escaped an 
attack of the lung fever, which would have 
been rather tough. When I got better, as mother 
was very desirous of avoiding our east winds, 
and as I was rather pulled down by my sickness, 
and unable to use my eyes, so that it was use- 



86 MEMOIR. 

less for me to attempt to study, we made a trip 
on here to this city of brotherly love. It is very 
pleasant here, and uncomfortably hot. We have 
the windows open all day, and in the evening 
also. The grass is green, and some of the trees 
appear quite green too. I shall be right glad to 
get back to Exeter again. I have nothing to do 
here, except to see the city and the sights, and I 
have done nothing since I left you. I have not 
been able to read at all, for the measles, as you 
know, perhaps, affects the eyes, more or less, 
and leaves them very weak. 

P. S. Give my best regards to all the boys in 
general and to Hammond in particular. Tell 
him, if he wants me to get or bring anything 
for him from Boston, when I pass through, I 
should he glad to do it. He was very kind to 
me before I left, and at a time when I was too 
sick to do much for myself. He got my books, 
ran my errands, and did a good many things for 
me, and I should like to do something in return. 

I shall be with you, if nothing prevents, in 
two or three days after I get home, that is, if 
my eyes are well enough to study. They ad- 
monish me now that I have written full enough, 
and that I must bring my letter to a close. 

With best regards to G. and the family, I re- 
main your affectionate friend. 



MEMOIR. 



FROM HIS JOURNAL. 



87 



Friday, July, 2, 1841. To-day we had the 
most glorious clap that the old schoolhouse has 
seen since I have been here. We boys sent in 
a petition to Mr. Soule, praying for Monday, 
(the fourth of July,) as a holiday, and for to- 
morrow as a day of preparation. So after the * 
usual exercise of prayers was concluded, we all 
sat waiting for Mr. Soule's customary speech. 
He began by saying that Monday was ours, of 
course ; but as for Saturday, we should each of 
us lose two recitations, which we could ill afford 
to do ; for that some of us would have hardly 
time enough to go through with our necessary 
studies. That Monday was time sufficient to 
celebrate the fourth, and to perform all the ne- 
cessary preparations ; and that they had deter- 
mined, after carefully investigating the matter, 
and after mature deliberation, to grant us Sat- 
urday also. There was some change in the ex- 
pression of faces in the room, when that finish- 
ing clause came out, I rather think. For 
myself, I could have thrown up my cap, and 
given him three times three with a will ; and if 
there would not have been plenty to join me, I 
am very much mistaken in our Exeter scholars. 



88 



[EM01R. 



Mr. Soule then went on to give us some advice 
about propriety, and restraining our exuberance 
of spirits ; and concluded by wishing us a 
very pleasant time. " And now/ 5 said he, " if 
you wish to express your feelings/' — and he 
stretched out his hands in an attitude that could 
not be mistaken. Every pair of hands went 
up ; and, as Mr. Soule took the lead, such a 
clap arose, that the old schoolhouse echoed 
again — three times three, loud, clear, and dis- 
tinct — one hundred and forty hands, and a 
will to move them. O, it was glorious ! my 
hands have ached ever since. Talk about the 
hurrahs of an army, or the shouts of a mob — 
if they can give one half so good a clap as we 
had, I should like to hear them. 



LINES WRITTEN BY ROBERT, AND DATED JULY 8, 1841. 

I would not lie in a marble tomb, 
Though purple robes and jewels fair 

Shone through the darkness and solemn gloom, 
And art had left its trophies there ; 



And sculptured forms, so true to life, 
Were carved on the pure and silent stone, 

That they seemed like figures of angels bright, 
Who were sorrowing over the spirit gone ; 



MEMOIR. 89 

Though nohle halls, and arches grand, 

Enclosed the place where my body lay, 
And kings, the greatest of the land, 

Were buried there till endless day. 

I would not lie in a dreary tomb ; 

For cold and dark would be my sleep, 
Where no pure light from the gentle moon, 

Or glancing rays from the sun could creep. 

But I would lie in the wild, wild wood, 
Afar from the splendor and wealth of men ; 

Where the rustling pines, in their solitudes, 
And whispering winds my fate should tell. 

And there, in the green turf above my head, 
(For not e'en a fence should guard it round,) 

The listening hare should make his bed, 
And the deer should sport with leap and bound. 

And when the summer evenings came, 

And still and calm all nature lay, 
My spirit would joy to visit again, 

And around my simple grave to stay. 



TO HIS FATHER. 



dear father, Exeter, July 16, 1841. 

I saw Mr. Soule this evening again. He says 
I can do as I like about leaving here ; that he 
would wish me to be back two weeks before ex- 
hibition, in order to have time for rehearsal, and 
that I must decide for myself how long to stay, 



90 MEMOIR. 

and when to leave. I do not think I can get off 
to-morrow, although, if I do not go then, I can 
have but two weeks at Naushon. The fact is 
I do not want to go at all. I am so busily, so 
pleasantly engaged here, that not even Naushon, 
when seen through the perspective of one hun- 
dred miles, can call me away. What with Latin 
poetry and Greek, and pleasant classes and in- 
teresting lessons in school, and two afternoons a 
week with their expeditions and companies of 
boys, and the evening walks and pleasant com- 
panions out of school, I have no great desire to 
leave, I assure you ; though if I once got settled 
down at Naushon, I should not like to leave 
there either. I will agree to come the 24th, 
however, and stay two weeks, and if you are 
very desirous of having me spend more time 
there, and write a very persuasive letter, I may 
be induced to come next week. 



TO MISS A. M. D. 

dear annie, Exeter, July 17, 1841. 

... If you wish to hear what Ave school- 
boys are doing — schoolboys for the last time 
— I will endeavor to tell you, and make a 
virtue of necessity, for I can write about nothing 



MEMOIR. 91 

else. Two or three subjects engross all our time 
and thoughts. Your letter seemed to wake me 
from a kind of trance. It immediately struck 
my mind that there were other places in the 
world beside Exeter, and that there must be 
other people. I do not mean to say that I have 
forgotten you all entirely ; but, to tell the truth, 
I have thought very little about you, or what 
might be going on at home these last five 
weeks. The fact is, I have been so entirely 
occupied, since my return, with Latin poetry, 
which we have been busy writing, with Greek 
and with algebra, that I have thought of little 
else. Square roots and cube roots have been 
my constant companions, and I have found my- 
self resolving a row of houses into an " infinite 
series, " and scanning a shoemaker's sign into 
hexameter verse. I never had so delightfully 
busy a summer. The walks, with a pleasant 
companion or friend on the banks of our river — 
the moonlight walks — the expeditions, and in- 
tercourse, and friendship with the boys. Just 
the sort of enjoyment that I know you would 
select for students. You can think how pleas- 
ant it must be, when I tell you that I have per- 
mission from Mr. Soule to leave for Naushon to- 
day, and to stay three weeks; but that, instead 



92 MEMOIR. 

of going immediately, I shall take one week off 
the vacation, and should not go at all, if father 
did not think it decidedly best. Exhibition is 
coming on too, and we are all preparing for 
that. Would you not like to see a certain bash- 
ful, modest youth on the stage, addressing a 
large audience, composed of the learned of the 
land, and in high-flown language descanting 
upon the — the — . Alas ! I have not even 
chosen a subject yet. 



TO THE SAME. 



dear anniEj Saturday, Aug. 21, 1841. 

I know you feel enough interested in my fate 
to wish to hear whether I survived our Exeter 
Exhibition or not, and so I will steal time to 
tell you. I got off finely — first-rate. I was not 
prompted, or bothered, or deaded, as it is called 
here, upon any part of my piece ; and although 
it would have taken very little to disturb my 
self-possession, yet I managed to preserve the 
outward appearance of coolness and unconcern ; 
how, I do not know ; — I was afraid to look up or 
down, to the right or left ; and except one slight 
glance at Dr. Abbot and the Judge, who were 



MEMOIR. 93 

directly in front of me, I saw nothing till I left 
the stage. But when I did leave it, and was 
safely through, I would not have changed places 
with any one in this world. I felt much more 
than perfectly delighted and happy. Why ! 
they gave me the only clap that was given 
through the whole exhibition! — even me! — 
who never once thought of such a thing, and 
the summit of whose desire was to get off with- 
out blundering. 

Now I think I have heard you call me a 
modest youth, Annie. But I fear my character 
for modesty will be entirely gone with you, 
after reading this page ; and lest it should be 
the same with others, I request you will show 
this to no one. And to save myself with you 
at least a little, I can say that I would have 
written it to no one else but mother, and only 
did so now because I thought you had a friendly 
interest in my success. Excuse me this once, 
and I will say no more in the boastful line, till 
I get irlto college at least ; and T hope I shall 
have something to boast of there, but it is very 
dubious. We had a capital exhibition ; every- 
thing went off well. But I must stop. My 
Greek grammar lies very uninvitingly open. 
The day after to-morrow is (college) examina- 



94 MEMOIR. 

tion. Do give me your good wishes, for I shall 
need them all, then, 

Yours, affectionately, 

Robert Swain. 



EXTRACT FROM ROBERTS EXHIBITION PART. 

All true distinctions, and, still more, all 
real excellence, must be the product of our own 
minds. Talents and knowledge, and strength 
of principle and character, cannot be entailed 
upon us, like estates. Each one must obtain 
them for himself, by his own labor and exer- 
tions ; and though other things may assist or 
retard his progress, yet his final success depends 
on himself alone. It is for us now, as school- 
boys, as students, to form the groundwork of 
our character ; to sink a well, deep down to the 
very fount of knowledge, from which, during 
the dry journey of life, we may draw refreshing 
draughts to revive our drooping spirits. 

To those who will do nothing towards mak- 
ing their own way along, all the good fortune 
in the world is useless ; while to the youth 
firmly resolved, that, in spite of every difficulty, 
he will hew out a fortune for himself, every- 



MEMOIR. 95 

thing lends a helping hand. The sea, with its 
heaving billows and unfettered power, teaches 
him of freedom, boundless, unquestioned free- 
dom ; and he may wander on its shores, and 
gaze upon its waters, till, like the great Athenian 
orator, he is inspired with eloquence and power. 
The mountains, with snowy peaks parting the 
clouds, point to that Heaven which should be 
the aim of all his labors ; and with their firm 
base, " rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun," fill 
him with the hope that, when he departs, he 
may leave behind him monuments as lasting 
as themselves. Nature, with all her voices, 
joins in the chorus of " onward, still onward." 

And so should we do now ; with the firm re- 
solve and lasting purpose — with the determin- 
ation that, through discouragement and disap- 
pointment, we will make our own way bravely 
and fearlessly. How many have stood where I 
stand now, and gazed upon these walls for the 
last time. They have gone forth to other scenes 
« — some into the various professions, and some 
into the pursuits of literature and science. The 
careless age of happy boyhood is past; they 
are scattered abroad through the world. Many, 
for want of confidence in self, and a determina- 
tion to raise themselves by their own efforts, 



96 MEMOIR. 

have sunk into obscurity. Their names, as we 
read them in our catalogue, awaken no sensa- 
tions : while others, starting from the same 
point, have placed their names high, as beacon 
stars to guide us on. And shall we not follow ! 

" The lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime ; 
And, departing, leave behind us 
Footsteps on the path of time." 



FROM HIS JOURNAL. 

Saturday, Aug. 15, 1841. My Exeter days 
are almost gone. Next Wednesday is examina- 
tion. Thursday, exhibition. Friday, we all 
leave. Two years I have been here, counting 
my absences ; and they have been the two 
pleasantest years of my life, at least they are 
so to look back upon. Two years ! The last 
of my schoolboy days ! I never can recall 
them. I never can spend two such again. 
They are gone ! gone ! ! gone ! ! ! I feel the 
value of every moment I have lost now. With- 
in the last few days all my former feelings and 
thoughts have come back to me again. I 
think I see myself away from home for the first 
time, wandering about old Exeter, perfectly 



MEMOIR. 97 

homesick through and through ; acquainted 
with no one in the school or town, and looking 
forward to my sixteen weeks as anything but & 
pleasant prospect. I remember when my father 
left me in the school-yard. How I felt ! We 
neither of us said much ; but I went into the 
schoolhouse, and sat down in my seat, feeling 
so perfectly and entirely melancholy, that I 
would have given up everything for home. 
But we little know what is before us. My last 
term, my last year has been so pleasant, that I 
have not wished to go home. And now it is all 
past. I have come to a full stop in the page 
of life. What is done is done. And now for 
examination, exhibition — examination, college. 
Four years from now may I be able to look 
back upon my college experience with as much 
pleasure as I now can on Old Exeter. 




CHAPTER V. 

HIS COLLEGE LIFE. 
Age 19. 

Robert entered Harvard University in Au- 
gust, 1841. His journal j while there, was 
mostly taken up with particulars respecting his 
recitations, and the details of college life. It 
shows him, with an exuberance of boyish spirits, 
entering heartily into the innocent amusements 
of the place, and sometimes giving way to more 
serious thoughts. 



FROM HIS COLLEGE JOURNAL. 

August, 1841. Examination is just over. 
What the result is, we none of us know. Shall 
find out at five o'clock. 

Two such days I never passed. They may 
talk about examination being easy, and not half 
what it is said to be. It may be so for one who 
is a first-rate scholar, and pretty quick in his 
operations; but, for my part, I don't like to be 
drove. I never had such tough work. The 
first day it was tolerable ; but in the afternoon, 



MEMOIR. 99 

thinking I had plenty of time, I did not hurry 
my arithmetic, but stopped to prove all my 
sums ; so that I was awfully hurried in my al- 
gebra. I was working away, like a Trojan, 
when EL, who had done his sums, came and 
sat down by me, and telling me to hurry so as 
to get out soon, asked to look over my paper, 
and without my asking him, or saying any- 
thing about it to him, he did four of the last 
sums on a separate piece of paper, which I had 
not come to, but which I knew were easy by 
the looks of them, and throwing the paper on 
the table, said, " Swain, there are your sums," 

and getting up, left the room. Now 

was looking on, and immediately came up and 
took the paper, which was lying on the desk, 
and casting his eye over it, said, "This will 
never do. Who gave you this ? " I told him. 
He did not like it at all, and told me I should have 
to do my mathematics over again, in all proba- 
bility. And in a few moments after he called in 
all the algebra, and I had to hand mine up, 
though the last sum was not done. I never felt 
so in all my days. I had not copied it off; 
some was on one paper, and some on another ; 
the last sum unattempted, the next to the last 
unfinished, and just three minutes allowed you 



100 MEMOIR. 

to sign your name and hand them up. Such a 
mingling of feelings ! It seemed to me that I 
was charged with electricity so full, that I could 
hardly contain myself, and I expected every 
moment to go off with an explosion. I do be- 
lieve that my head was, for the time at least, 
nothing but an electrical machine working away 
for life, and disseminating the fluid over my 
whole body. How I survived it, I don't know. 
The Exeter exhibition was bad enough, but 
goodness ! it was a mere circumstance to this. 
I would not pass such another three days ! why 
it would be as much as my life is worth. 

In some of the examination I got off tolerably 
easy. The geography was a mere farce. A 
divinity student examined us. He is a first-rate 
fellow, I know. He laughed at the mistakes 
as well as we, and they were not a few. I 
have seldom spent a more amusing half hour 
than that. He asked M. what peninsula there 
is in the Black Sea? M. hesitated a little, and 
then said, " Greece, sir." u Swain, what is the 
capital of Missouri? " " Why-y, Indianopolis, 
sir." One fellow was asked what two coun- 
tries are separated by the Alps? He answered 

North and South America." In Cicero, 

told C, who had been translating rather wide 



MEMOIR. 101 

of the mark, that he was wrong. C. contended 

that he was right. translated the passage 

to him, and proved that he was all wrong. C. 
then said, "Why, yes, sir, mine was a free 

translation." Said , "I do not like does 

free translations, dey destroys all de sense." 

Saturday. 29th. After the examination was 
over, and such an examination — it makes me 
tremble to think of it — after it was all over, 
we had to wait two hours to see whether we 
were admitted. And then we were marched up 
into the President's room, where all the faculty 
were assembled, and each one learned "his fate. 
All our section were admitted clear but one. 
Eight fellows were turned by entirely. In Latin 
and Greek I got in clear, but that algebra busi- 
ness fixed me. Not having done the last sum, 
I was put by in simple equations ; and if there 
was anything in my whole course that I was pre- 
pared on, it was equations; and, if I could have 
had ten minutes, I could have done any sum 
he gave me. I told him, when I gave in my 
algebra, that my last sum was not finished, and 
asked for a few minutes time. But no, he 
must have the exercise now, and finished or 
not, I must hand mine up. And then to turn 
us by for no mistake, but for want of time 



102 MEMOIR. 

only, I thought too bad. And besides that, in 
ancient geography I was turned by, and I 
cannot remember that a single question was 
asked me in it. If it had been modern geogra- 
phy, I should not have thought it strange. And 
by that clever, pleasant divinity student, too ! 
Upon the whole, I don't think he was so clever 
as I at first thought him. 



TO HIS PARENTS. 

DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER, 

Nahantj Wednesday, 25th. 

Now I have time, I will tell you my experi- 
ence more at length. I am here at Nahant, safe, 
in spite of all I have gone through. I have 
had an investigation, and find I have sustained 
no bodily injury from the examination, though 
as regards my mental faculties, I am not so 
certain. Perhaps a person can bear being driven 
about for two days, pushed, and shoved, and 
marched up and down stairs, and kept going and 
moving all the time, without experiencing any 
physical injury. But to have all your faculties 
wound up to the utmost point, and your brains 
going like a steam engine for two days, and to 
have everything round you like a New York 



MEMOIR. 103 

steamer, at the very last minute of starting, — 
orders given out, people hurrying, everything 
in an uproar; — have all this, and imagine 
whether any one can go through a Cambridge 
examination, without seriously disorganizing his 
mind. But, in fact, I never went through any- 
thing like it. The examination was not so 
very difficult, perhaps, if one could have had 
time. But they drive us all the time we are 
there — there was nothing but hurry, hurry, 
hurry. . . . 



TO AN EXETER SCHOOL-MATE. 

dear e., Cambridge, Aug. 30th, 1841. 

I think we made a sort of mutual agreement 
to write to each other, if it did not amount to a 
promise, and you must give me credit for begin- 
ning so promptly. The fact is, I have a good 
deal to tell you 

Here I am at old Harvard — entered, not 
quite clear, but pretty well, considering — and 
passed through the toughest examination that 
ever I experienced ; I never expected anything 
like it. Seven fellows were turned by entirely. 

. . . . The whole examination was tremen- 
dous. We were driven for time, all the second 



104 MEMOIR. 

day ? though in the first it was comparatively- 
easy. They are raising the standard ; so next 
year you must look out, Miram ! I got off finely 
in Latin and Greek 

You have no idea how differently I feel here 
from what I did at Exeter. I am as Fresh as 
possible. I don't know anything — perfectly 
ignorant. It is raining, dark and gloomy; I 
am never homesick now. But you must not 
think it strange if your humble servant does 
feel a little lonesome. Lonesome ! you will say, 
with five hundred boys around you ? But you 
see, the boys are not here ; and I think I shall 
find it a great drawback living out of the col- 
lege buildings. 

. . . Em, I must bid you farewell, with 
lots of good wishes for your enjoyment and suc- 
cess, whether as teacher or scholar ; and, in the 
mean time, may you have a pleasant vacation. 
Give my best regards to your family circle — 
the Gilmans, when you see them. And be- 
lieve me your most affectionate friend and 
schoolfellow, Robert Swain. 

P. S. I approve highly of your correspond- 
ence plan. Do you remember that Benjamin 
Franklin kept up a correspondence with a 
friend, much to his improvement? What Ben 



MEMOIR. 105 

Franklins we will make ! won't we, Miram? I 
wish to make one or two rules, concerning this 
great correspondence. One, that we shall nei- 
ther of us ever offer an excuse for not writing, 
or answering letters soon enough. For the ex- 
cuses take up half the letter, and are entirely- 
useless. And the other, that in our answers we 
correct each other's letters, and send back the 
mistakes in a postscript. You will have the 
advantage of me there, for I am an awful bad 
speller, and shall need much correcting. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

dear mother, Cambridge, Sunday, Oct. 1841. 

. . . I think of you often, particularly 
when pleasant days remind me of Naushon, 
and our delightful October walks and drawing 
excursions. I should enjoy spending a week at 
Naushon now, more than at any time. When 
I get through my last recitation, at half past 
twelve, I wish often to be transplanted for the 
afternoon, and set down on the trotting course, 
south shore, or anywhere on the island. But 
the gun I should want, you would not like to 
see. 

Everything goes on well here. I am antici- 



106 MEMOIR. 

pating much pleasure from a visit to New Bed- 
ford on Thanksgiving day. 25th of next month. 
You will be settled at home then, and Mr. M. 
will be gone from our house that is. I don't 
know how I shall get along without him. I 
am afraid it will hardly seem like home to me. 
To have our little library vacant, all his books 
gone, his seat at table unoccupied ; and more 
than all, his conversation, himself absent. Why, 
I don't know how you feel about it, but I am 
quite melancholy at the idea, which is rather 
unusual for me, I think. . . . 



FROM HIS COLLEGE JOURNAL. 

Saturday, Jan. 8th, 1842. Glorious ! Was 
in Cambridge street walking out this afternoon, 
with a large bundle under my arm, when I met 
the President, walking. I bowed as respectfully 
as possible, to make up for not touching my hat, 
both hands being engaged. The President got 
a little by, when he said, " Swain !" "Yes, 
sir," said I. " Swain, are you walking out?" 
" Yes, sir," said I. " Well, Swain, I am going 
out in my carriage presently, and I'll take you 
out, if you like to ride." " Should be most 



MEMOIR. 107 

happy to," said I. " Well, then, if you'll wait 
at the toll-house, I '11 meet you in a few min- 
utes." '-Yes, sir," said I, and on I walked. 
Now that was rather a gentlemanly thing for 
the President of a college to do to one of the 
students of the same, I think. Almost as soon 
as I got to the toll-house, the President came 
along, and in I got. He made a few remarks, 
after we got started, about its being a long walk 
for one with my inconveniences. I said, I was 
used to walking, walked a good deal, &c. . . . 
Had a pleasant ride. I compared his horse, 
who was rather frisky and ambitious to go, to 
some of his wild collegians, whom he found it 
rather difficult to restrain ; at which the Presi- 
dent unlocked the gates of his mouth and calmly 
smiled, as he checked, with firm hand, his 
bounding steed. "Ah, well," said he, relaxing 
the reins, "Ihav'nt a word to say, I hav 'nt 
a word to say. They have behaved very much 
like gentlemen this term." We arrived at Cam- 
bridge safe, and I got out at the University 
bookstore, and thanked him for my ride, and 
he said, "Not at all, si?*, I am very glad to 
have the pleasure of your company." All of 
which I call rather polite than otherwise in the 
President. 



108 MEMOIR. 

Sunday, Jan. 9th. I have just heard a 
very sad piece of news : William Jarvis is dead ! 
Morison saw it in a Salem paper, though we 
have not heard it from Exeter. William Jarvis ! 
whom I boarded with, and was most intimate 
with, only four months ago. Of our number, 
there was scarce one so full of hope, so joyous 
and light-hearted. There was not one whom 
I would sooner trust as a true, faithful friend 
in the hour of need. And yet, all that time we 
were there together, at school and at home, in 
our sports and jokes and fun, laughing over the 
past, and laughing at the future, even then, his 
days were marked out ; and when a new year 
came, he was not one amongst us. So near are 
we to death when we least think of it. 

Wednesday night, Jan. 12th. Examination 
through with. Got my matriculation ! got my 
circular, and bills in abundance ! The term is 
wound up, and a good many of the fellows are 

wound up also. is sent off for cutting 

prayers and recitations. E. and I went up in 
his room this evening. He feels badly about it, 
and I am sorry for him. It was rather melan- 
choly, seeing a fellow packing up for the last 
time, his college course finished, or rather un- 
finished; sent off for neglect of the opportuni- 






MEMOIR. 109 

ties for his own improvement; while he himself 
looks back upon his college course as a thing 
that has been, and from which he has derived 
but little advantage. 



TO AN EXETER SCHOOL-MATE. 
dear E. } New Bedford, Feb. 6, 1842. 

The vacation must not go past without hear- 
ing from you. I wrote just as the term ended, 
and have been expecting an answer ever since 
— three weeks of anxious expectation. . . . 
G. S. E., a to-be class-mate of yours, has been 
spending a week with me, which I have enjoyed 
very much. He is a fine fellow, as are all of 
our class. Next week, father and I go to Nau- 
shon to make a visit. We expect a glorious 
time. And now I have informed you concern- 
ing my designs and plans, I shall ask a few 
questions about yours. I have not heard one 
word about Willie Jarvis ; and, unless Morison 
had seen it in a paper, should not have known 
of his death. I do not like to hear of old school- 
fellows, and fellow-boarders too, dying, without 
one word from any one about them. With 
every one that goes I feel that a new link is 
broken, which binds me to boyhood and school- 



110 MEMOIR. 

boy days ; and look back upon the past as 
something still farther removed. But, as one by 
one departs, the closer are we who are left 
brought together, Em, and the better friends are 
we, the fewer we are. I think a good deal of 
our boyish and college friendships. No matter 
what happens among families and old folks, 
we can and should remain the same. With 
Exeter generally I don't think I. have so much 
interest as formerly ; but with my friends I 
hope it remains unaltered. 

Do write me, and tell me about the remains 
of the Golden Branch, and any other topic of 
interest in the school or town. And now I must 
stop ; remaining, as ever 

Your true friend, 

Robert Swain. 



TO THE SAME. 

dear e., New Bedford, Feb. 19, 1842. 

Our vacation is now drawing to a close. 
Next week is the last, and then I shall return 
once more to studies and — sobriety, I was 
going to say. But Heaven knows we have all 
been sober enough here for these last two weeks. 
My father has been very sick ; so sick, that I 



MEMOIR. Ill 

hardly dared to hope for his recovery; and, 

though better now, he is still dangerously, very 

dangerously ill. You have never stood in the 

same relation to your father, that I have to 

mine ; and you cannot know the feelings the 

bare idea of his death would awaken. Having 

no brothers or sisters, he has always been both 

to me. 1 always feel and talk as freely with 

him as I do with you; and losing him, I should 

lose all, all in this world. I have very little to 

tell you, as you may suppose. Our expedition 

to Naushon will not happen this vacation ; and 

Milton also I shall have to give up 

Give my regards to your father, mother, and 

family; also the Judge and Mrs. Smith and 

family, and the Gilman family ; and believe me 

Your affectionate friend, 

Robert. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

dear mother, Cambridge, March 19, 1842. 

I am glad to hear from Edward that you are 
well enough to care to hear from me; and 
father, too, continues slowly improving. I have 
entirely recovered from my small attack of the 
blues, and am enjoying myself highly. Last 



112 MEMOIR. 

night we had a glorious fire. A large barn, 
about two miles from the town, full of hay, was 
burned to the ground. The engines came from 
all quarters, Boston, Charlestown, &c. &c. ; but 
fortunately too late to put it out. It was a beau- 
tiful moonlight night. The dark sky set off the 
splendor of the fire, the cinders, and falling 
beams to great advantage; while the eager 
faces, the hallooings of men, and the rattling 
of engines, contrasted as strongly with the quiet 
moon, who looked down as calmly as she does 
upon our little harbor at Naushon 5 on a sum- 
mer's night. . . . 



TO HIS FATHER. 

dear father, Cambridge, April 10, 1842. 

. . These few days past have been very 
beautiful, and I wish I could have been at 
home to take mother out to ride. But no doubt 
she has enjoyed them ; and you must have been 
benefited by them also. I think about Naushon 
as the time before vacation slips gradually away ; 
and green trees, and birds, and ponds spring up 
from under sines and co-sines, and appear be- 
tween the leaves of Greek dictionaries, and all 
such places where they ought not to be. 



MEMOIR. 113 

This afternoon, had another sail on Fresh 
Pond with G. S. E. and Mr. D. Enjoyed it very 
much. Tell mother we have to walk two miles 
to get there; so that she can see that I take 
some exercise 

I went into Mr. E.'s room yesterday. Mr. D. 
told him I was your son. " Tell the Governor I 
am glad he is getting well," was the first thing 
he said to me. Every one I meet, father, inquires 
about you, and expresses real joy at your reco- 
very. You don't know how many good friends 
you have, and how much interest your sickness 
has excited, even among those who had hardly 
seen you. And now, my dear father, I must 
bid you good-by, with best love to mother and 
all. 

Your most affectionate son, . . . 



TO THE SAME. 

dear father, May 31, 1842. 

. . . t You did not say a word about your- 
self in your last letter, and therefore I am as ig- 
norant as ever concerning that which I wished 
most to hear about. Mother moves on the island 
to-morrow ; you follow in a week. So you must 
be able to ride out now, I suppose, and greatly 



114 



MEMOIR, 



hope. How much yon will enjoy it ! and how 
I wish I were to be with you, to drive you 
about all the pleasant rides, with our old dobbin 
and gig, and enjoy it all through your pleasure 
and mine. What a delightful spring this is ! 
Everything has sprung into life so quickly. 
We have the freshness of spring and the matur- 
ity of summer at the same time. I never en- 
joyed riding so much before, and had no idea of 
the beauty of the country around Boston. It 
is a perfect paradise to ride through — beautiful 
country seats, delightful situations ; some, like 
Mrs. F.'s, with an extensive prospect, and some 
almost buried in the trees, of which there seems 
to be a perfect exuberance. I am having lots of 
pleasure here now, and yet am looking forward 
to vacation with the greatest anticipations. I 
want to be with you, father, very much indeed. 
Sickness makes us feel how very dear we are 
to each other ; and that we must enjoy our 
friends while we may, the little time we spend 
together here. It seems to me, at times, that 
every day I spend away from you is so much 
lost; and when you were so sick, every mo- 
ment we had passed together came back to me 
of tenfold value, and the thought that, it might 
be, they would come no more ! Thank God, 



MEMOIR. 115 

you knew not what it was, and that it is not 
so ! And when the delirium began to leave you. 
and almost your first words to me were, " Kiss 
me, Bob,' ; O, father, you could n't tell how I 
felt. You say, the experience of your sickness 
is valuable to you. I am sure it is no less so to 
me, even if it were only to see how many 
friends you had, ready and willing to do every- 
thing for you. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

my dearest mother, Cambridge, June 13, 1843. 

Your letter has added fuel to my already too 
great eagerness to visit Naushon once more. If 
I can only once get there, college life, college 
studies, and college pleasures, may go to the 
realms above or the shades below, for all I 
would do to rescue them. I am almost afraid 
Naushon will have a bad effect on me. It is so 
unusually, so supremely delightful, that I can- 
not even imagine any spot upon this earth that 
would be preferable to it. What shall I do 
when I get out of college? Naushon! Nau- 
shon ! ! Naushon ! ! ! will be calling me all the 
summer ; and if I can do as I please, how shall 
I resist it ? It is a delightful place to rusticate 



116 MEMOIR. 

in, but very little fitted to encourage improve- 
ment, or for studying a profession, or prepara- 
tion for any of the serious concerns of life. 
Hearing the lambs and the birds, and watching 
the vessels, and enjoying the beauty of our little 
harbor and the surrounding landscape, which I 
can call up before me full as distinctly as you 
yourself can see it, with every hill and bend of 
shore and rock, that I knew too well sometimes. 
A most delightful life it is, but I fear not very 
well fitted for one who would engage in any 
active employment. How I could leave it all, 
to go through the dry routine of a profession, I 
do not know. But I shall leave all such sober 
reflections for some time yet, and content myself 
with fleecing Naushon out of as much pleasure 
as can possibly be obtained in the contracted 
space of six weeks. And O, how I do long 
for the time to come. But there is much to be 
done in these vicinities before vacation. Lots 
of reviewing; dreadful Latin; awful Greek; 
and horrible mathematics to be reviewed and 
examined in; which, with the chance of study- 
ing in vacation, if you don't get off well, makes 
a pleasant little excitement. But I must bid you 
a good night, my dear mother ; remaining ever 
your affectionate son. 






MEMOIR. 117 



FROM HIS JOURNAL. 

Saturday, Aug. 27, 1842. Returned to Cam- 
bridge at the close of a most delightful vacation, 
passed almost entirely at Naushon ; in the course 
of which I had a visit from W. P. of a week j 
G. S. E. and H. D., who returned to college 
with me ; and various other uncollegiate friends 
and acquaintances. And now I am a glorious 
soph. . . . The year of freshman ship and 
the era of greenness is past, and now, in reality, 
my college life begins. 

Sept. 5th. Father came out in the afternoon 
from New Bedford and Naushon. I was de- 
lighted to see him once more. Had quite a 
long talk about affairs, and the possibility of 
my having to leave college and take a voyage 
this winter, which, in my present state, I con- 
sider quite a probability or possibility rather, 
as my lungs are not well or strong, by any 
means. We decided that I should try more 
exercise, boxing, gymnasium, &c, and if that 
has no effect, decide farther what to do. 

Tuesday, 15th Sept. Our first theme comes 
on Monday next, and much trouble has it cost 
me. To-night I spent some time on it, till I 
was so tired, I gave it up and went to bed. 



118 MEMOIR. 

The subject is, what may be considered strictly 
honorable methods of seeking political office. 

Wednesday, 5th Oct. We hear that Dr. Chan- 
ning is dead. I was much astonished, as I had 
not heard he was ill. He was a good man, and 
I should like to have his chance of going to 
Heaven when I die, which may be sooner than 
is expected by my anxious friends. 



TO HIS FATHER. 

dear father, Cambridge, Sept 2d, 1842. 

. . . I am now quite settled at Mr. Tucker's, 
almost opposite the post-office, — a very conven- 
ient situation, and a very pleasant room. I think 
I shall like it. There are three other students in 
the house — a junior and two freshmen. I am 
anticipating a delightful year, and am much 
better situated for college fun than I was last, 
and equally well, I hope, for study. I don't 
allow myself to think of Naushon yet. I have 
had so pleasant a vacation, it would hardly be 
safe. Cambridge would not profit by the com- 
parison, and I fear my state of contentment 
would not be improved. My best love to mo- 
ther ; and when she draws her little table and 
desk up to the window of her little room, and 



MEMOIR. 119 

the visiters are all out riding, and the children 
and mosquitoes are quiet, and she can look out 
upon the Sound and see the vessels sailing by 
and the old herons fishing on the shore, just a 
little more vividly than I see them now; and 
while the afternoon air softens and stills the 
whole ; if, I say, there should be pen and ink 
and paper on that table, could she not material- 
ize some of those thoughts which seem to invest 
the little room, the window and table, and one 
end of the little couch with a sort of halo ? And 
could not the materialized ethereal find its way 
down to the seat of the muses ? I ? 11 engage it 
shall be wasted on no miserable freshman, but 
shall be duly appreciated, if possible. 



CHAPTER VI. 



ROBERT S WINTER AT ST. MICHAELS AND LAS! 
SUMMER AT NAUSHON. 

Age 20. 

Soon after the commencement of his second 
year at college, Robert's lungs, which had 
always been delicate, gave indications of in- 
creasing disease, and, as the winter came on, 
it was thought best that he should go to the 
Western Islands with his father, whose health 
also required a milder climate. They were 
accompanied by their friend, Henry W. Tor- 
rey, and sailed from New Bedford for St. 
Michaels the 16th of December. They carried 
with them resources for a delightful voyage. 
The master of the ship, Daniel McKenzie, an 
experienced whaling captain, was a man full of 
life, personal anecdotes, and kind and generous 
feelings. But the passengers were more or less 
seasick, the weather was contrary and unpleas- 
ant, and, with all their resources, they found 
themselves glad to see the shore. 



MEMOIR. 121 



FROM HIS JOURNAL. 



On Friday, Dec. 16th, 1842, we left New Bed- 
ford in the ship Caroline, Capt. McKenzie, for 
the Azores, our party consisting of Mr. Torrey, 
father and myself. 

. . . Saturday, 24th. A week out, and 
stormy weather we have had — our north wind 
increasing to a heavy gale ; and away we went 
before it, under close-reefed topsails and reefed 
mainsail, the ship rolling and pitching into the 
heavy sea, and all the sublimity of a gale of 
wind at sea. It is indescribable and grand, but 
it did not equal my anticipations. There was 
such a feeling of entire safety with me, that I 
could not realize the terrific grandeur so much 
talked about. If we could have an approach 
to a shipwreck, or carrying away a mast, or a 
sail at least, I could enjoy it, I think. But this 
being as safe as you are in a house at home is 
too tame — wants excitement. The appear- 
ance of the water is, however, very remarka- 
ble. It is black — no common black, but a 
deep, dark color, and the foam is scattered in 
blotches all over its surface, and where it ap- 
pears on the crest of a wave, the wind takes it 



122 MEMOIR. 

off, and rolls it away in round drops, just like 
snow, drifting. . . . 

Sunday j 1st of January. The last few days 
have been monotonous, as usual, but to-day we 
begin anew in everything. A fine, clear New- 
Year's day it is ; the very first one we have 
had yet. The captain had the boat lowered, 
and gave Mr. Torrey and myself a row. The 
ship looked most queen-like ; riding so calmly 
over the waves, every motion so buoyant and 
graceful that we could scarcely be tired of ad- 
miring her. We caught a Portuguese man-of- 
war, which occasioned much curiosity among 
the green hands. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

my dear mother, Atlantic Ocearij Ion. 36, lat. 40. 

I can easily imagine the pleasure with which 
you will open our little package of letters, and 
will try to do my part in entertaining you. 
Here we are sixteen days out, and expecting to 
make Corvo to-morrow afternoon, if the wind 
continues, and a most stormy, tempestuous pas- 
sage we have had ; as unlike a voyage to Santa 
Cruz as possible. The ship has been rolling 
and tumbling about, without one moment's rest; 



MEMOIR. 123 

and as for gales, which we were so anxious to 
see, there has been one continued gale ever 
since we left. . . . 

Saturday, 31st. This is a rainy day. The 
wind is light, and we go but slowly on our way. 
However we shall " make 77 Corvo to-morrow 
morning the captain says. Our captain is a 
man of a thousand. He has an inexhaustible 
store of yarns and fun, and we have enjoyed 
ourselves as much as possible in so stormy a 
passage. We often think of "what they are 
doing at home now, 77 and after making the due 
allowance for difference of time, for we are two 
hours and a half a head of you, we put you 
about just as we please 

The way the ship has rolled, while I have 
been writing this letter, has been very destruc- 
tive to elegance in penmanship, as well as com- 
posure and composition ; but all that I know 
you will excuse. 

Monday, 2d of January, and we are still on 
board the ship, and out sight of land. The 
wind is a head, not very strong, however, and 
the air is delightful. Thermometer 62° on 
deck. Our time begins to hang rather heavily 
on our hands, because we have a head wind, 
and so near the Islands ; looking out for land 



124 MEMOIR. 

every day, and still disappointed by head 
winds. 

Wednesday, 4th. Off Fayal. To-day we saw- 
land for the first time, and to-morrow we shall 
land, leave our letters, and start again for St. 
Michaels. We have had a beautiful sight, sail- 
ing towards and past the Islands. They are 
enveloped in clouds, which reach to the water's 
edge, and often hide them entirely. Pico is 
completely shrouded, and we have not seen its 
peak yet. . . . 

I will now bid you farewell, mother, and may 
you be as happy in your solitude at home as Ave 
are, and write as long letters as you receive 
from us. 



FROM HIS JOURNAL. 

On Wednesday, 4th of January, we com- 
menced beating up to Fayal. At two it was 
plainly visible, on the weather bow, and soon after 
old Pico appeared. They were both shrouded in 
clouds and mist, and often entirely obscured. 
After dinner we came on deck, and found Fayal 
out very plain. We could see the churches and 
little hamlets appearing like little dots on the 
sides of the mountains. The clouds hung down 



MEMOIR. 125 

to the water's edge, and often obscured one end 
of the island, while the other would be plainly- 
defined against the sky. The former were con- 
tinually changing, and over the tops of the 
mountains they were piled in heavy masses, 
beautifully illuminated by the sun. A wide 
belt of rainbow tints appeared to move slowly 
over the hills, and to accompany us. Pico was 
covered with clouds ; they seemed to hug round 
him as though his peak was not to be seen by 
vulgar eyes. 

Thursday, 5th Jan. This morning we were 
up at daylight, and out in the quarter-boat to 
see the islands. Strong winds through the night 
had driven us some distance off shore, and now 
we were obliged to beat up again. Our first 
tack gave us a fine view of Fayal, with a curi- 
ous perpendicular rock in the foreground. At 
three we opened the town of Fayal by a huge 
bluff or rock. . . . The most beautiful view I 
ever saw, would appear intolerably tame in 
comparison with what was here before us. On 
one side lay Fayal, a range of mountains in 
itself, with a huge castellated promontory jut- 
ting out towards us as a foreground, and misty 
mountains in the distance. The town appeared 
to consist of a scattered range of white houses, 



126 MEMOIR. 

among which the Governor's and Mr. Dabney's 
are most conspicuous. It looked very pretty — 
appears best in the distance, they say. The 
country appeared to be extensively cultivated. 
But Pico ! — on the opposite side was Pico — 
and it was the grandest and most beautiful 
sight I ever saw or imagined. Description is 
inadequate to convey any idea of it ; and sketch- 
ing I found equally tame. There it towered 
into the sky, showing its vastness, and, at the 
same time, perfectly graceful in its outline ; and 
so softened and mellowed in the afternoon light, 
that a pencil could not picture it. It stood a per- 
fect idea of the sublime and the beautiful to- 
gether. The clouds rolled down its sides, and 
circled in a band about two thirds up, while the 
exquisitely penciled peak appeared against the 
blue sky. The clouds were continually chang- 
ing, and each change of apparel seemed still 
more becoming to his majesty. It is seldom 
that Pico shows his peak, and our captain told 
us that we were very fortunate in our view, for 
we might wait weeks and not get such another. 
We could never have a better. On its side 
were perfect little mountains, rising to a point, 
cultivated to the top, and appearing scarcely 
larger than ant-hills. Houses were scattered 



MEMOIR. 127 

along its base; little white dots they were, 
scarcety perceptible when not in strong light. 
Even the sea was willing to add its share to so 
beautiful a scene, and up came the greatest 
quantity of porpoises, leaping and sporting on 
the water, till it seemed alive with them. A 
fleet of Portuguese men-of-war also appeared, 
as if conscious of their right to a Portuguese 
harbor 

Tuesday, 11th. We rose this morning with 
St. Michaels close on the weather-beam, and 
before eleven we had drunk our parting glass of 
champaign to the success of the good ship Caro- 
line and her excellent captain, had bidden Mr. 
Barlow and our other friends an affectionate 
farewell, and entered a whale-boat for shore, (at 
Ponta del Gada.) 

Friday, 14th. We expected to start early in 
the morning for Villa Franca, and were thus 
early instructed in Portuguese dilatoriness. At 
two o'clock ourselves and baggage were placed 
in a boat, Portuguese in all its appurtenances, 
and with Mr. Hickling, who kindly volunteered 
to attend and establish us, we hoisted our clumsy 
sail for Villa Franca. Our oars were the branches 
of trees, with blades and handles fastened on ; 
they were enormously long and heavy, and by 



128 MEMOIR. 

no means straight, and played on a thole pin, 
passing through a hole in the oar. The mast 
was also a tolerably straight stick in its primi- 
tive state, and the sail was a semi-lateen with 
a yard across its top. Yet our boat sailed fast 
in spite of all these, to us, barbarous contri- 
vances, and it was surprising how swiftly we 
glided along. Our crew were by far the most 
amusing specimens of Portuguese humanity we 
had yet seen. There was not an instant of 
silence while we were in the boat ; one con- 
tinued stream of talking and jabbering was 
kept up; and when we passed another boat, 
their exertions were truly appalling. I should 
not have been surprised to have seen them all 
jump into the water to have a few minutes 
more conversation ; and as it was, they bawled 
till the other boat was not only entirely out of 
sound, but out of sight also. The sail past the 
island was the most beautiful I ever beheld. 
Description is impossible. The scenery was 
bold and magnificent, wholly unlike anything 
I have ever seen before. It was impossible to 
select at random any part which would not 
make a striking picture. We shot in by jagged 
volcanic rocks, and then passed out into the 
open sea again, and opened the town, a low, 



MEMOIR. 129 

scattered range of buildings, by no means so 
conspicuous as Ponta del Gada. We approached 
a beach ; our sails were lowered, oars hauled 
in and boat poled in till she grounded and we 
were shouldered on shore by our crew, bag- 
gage and all 

The secret of Portuguese strength was shown 
us immediately on landing. Our baggage was 
shouldered by a troop of boys, some not more 
than four years old, and all eager to take some- 
thing, and in five minutes we were stringing 
through the town towards Mr. Hickling's house, 
which he placed at our disposal if it were large 
enough 

In the evening Mr. Torrey and myself took a 
stroll through the town by moonlight, and a 
more deserted melancholy place I never saw; 
not a soul was to be seen. The old churches 
and convents seemed dejected at the loss of 
their former dignity and consequence ; and if a 
war had depopulated the town ten years since, 
and it had not been entered since that time, it 
could not appear more lonely. The streets are 
narrow, paved with rough stone, and form a 
promenade for numerous hogs, which renders 
the walking somewhat intricate, particularly as 
there are no sidewalks. The custom of pro- 



130 MEMOIR. 

tecting the gardens with high walls, spoils the 
beauty of the town. There are no public trees, 
and all the private ones are hidden by these 
walls ; and unless you go into the country, you 
see little vegetation. 



By the 15 th of January, the travellers had 
got comfortably established in their own hired 
rooms at Villa Franca. The scenery around 
them was magnificent, and furnished them with 
an unfailing source of enjoyment. Robert had 
learned to draw when quite a child, with little 
instruction, except from his mother, taking 
sketches from nature, till he was able to draw 
with much ease and correctness. And although 
he was never satisfied with his skill, it was of 
great service to him, giving him a quick and 
exact eye for natural objects, and enabling him 
to carry home and preserve that which might 
call up to' his mind, with perfect distinctness, 
whatever he had seen with most interest abroad. 
At home it was a pleasure to him to look over 
these drawings, and thus call back and live over 
again the little incidents connected with them. 
On a winter's day, when confined to the house 
by a New England snow storm, he would thus 



MEMOIR. 131 

fill his room with the fruits and flowers, the 
soft breezes and sunny skies of Santa Cruz, 
and through the softening lights of memory, en- 
joy perhaps even more than if actually among 
them. And it was a yet richer source of pleas- 
ure, when abroad or at school, to look over 
sketches he had taken of scenes at Naushon, 
which beautiful in themselves, were made dou- 
bly dear to him by the tender and delightful 
associations connected with home, with child- 
hood, with life's early affections, hopes and 
dreams. At St. Michaels, as in his former jour- 
neys, drawing was a great resource, although 
he found himself more than ever baffled and 
confounded by the vastness of the objects around 
him. 



FROM HIS JOURNAL. 



Sunday, Jan. 19th. This morning we arose 
early, and having eaten our breakfast of bread, 
cheese and eggs, prepared for a journey to the 
celebrated Valley of the Furnas. Five jacks 
were brought to the door ; one for the baggage 
and four for the gentlemen passengers. They 
were armed with large, rough saddles, consist- 
ing of partially stuffed wooden frames to fit the 



132 MEMOIR. 

jack, and a frame before and behind, formed of 
two cross sticks to hold on by. On this affair the 
victim sits, with his legs hanging down on one 
side, while a driver runs by his side, and has 
the whole direction of the animal. We then 
mounted, and set off in grand style ; the drivers, 
with their particular hats, ran by our sides, call- 
ing to the jacks, in their established lingo. 
When a short distance from town a drizzling 
rain commenced. Coats and cloaks were in 
great demand, and just as we were arranged 
to our satisfaction, the rain ceased, the clouds 
rolled off, the sun came out bright, and the re- 
mainder of our ride was the wildest and most 
picturesque I ever saw. The road wound round 
mountains and through ravines, where the 
scenery was magnificent. The ocean was al- 
ways a back-ground on one side, and, as we 
ascended, we saw more and more of it, till it 
really seemed to reach the clouds. In some 
places, the brake or fern was so abundant and 
luxuriant as to clothe the side of a mountain 
with a coat of mail ; the branches overlapping 
each other like tiles. Our road was often so 
steep, that once up, it seemed impossible to de- 
scend again; and nothing but a jack would ever 
attempt the ascent. How father would succeed 



MEMOIR. 133 

was a mystery to us, and a fearful one to him. 
He was entirely at the mercy of his jack and 
driver, and all his English ejaculations were 
lost upon both. Could he have had his own 
way, he would probably have returned long be- 
fore we reached the middle of our journey. 
But after passing several " impossibilities/' he 
gathered confidence, and soon the return was 
attended with as many difficulties as the ad- 
vance. At length, upon turning a corner on 
the summit of a mountain, the valley of the 
Furnas opened before us — a beautiful, fertile 
plain, checkered off into fields, with a village 
dotted with white houses, a church, and little 
clouds of vapor, shooting out of the ground in 
various places, and around all was a chain of 
volcanic mountains, shutting in the little valley 
from the world — of St. Michaels. It appeared 
a perfect paradise. The descent now became 
very steep. . . . However, we reached Mr. 
Hickling's house in safety, and proceeded to 
visit the baths. A description of one of nature's 
most wonderful works must be unavailing. I 
shall, therefore, only partially attempt it. The 
great Caldeira is a cavity on the summit, though 
not the highest summit, of a hill. It is about 
two yards in diameter, with low, rough sides, 



134 MEMOIR. 

over which the boiling water runs on the lower 
side. The water boils and foams with great 
force, and emits clouds of sulphureous vapor 
continually. The impression of immense power 
at work below, strikes you at once. And I never 
came near these Caldeiras, or even entered a 
bath, without feeling myself nearer the infernal 
regions than I ever thought myself before. A 
few steps around the hill is a cavernous hole 
in its side, from which hot mud is thrown spas- 
modically and incessantly ; a black-looking place 
it is, and properly called " The Mouth of Hell." 
A jumping, steam engine noise is continually 
heard, and at every throb the cavern reverbe- 
rates, and the mud flies out in sprayey drops. 
There are many smaller Caldeiras where the 
water boils as fiercely as in this, but from their 
small size they do not appear so powerful. 
Small columns of vapor are seen rising up on 
every side, and the whole earth seems impreg- 
nated with boiling water, steam and sulphur. 
The baths are most luxurious. A continual 
stream of water flows through the stone recep- 
tacle, which holds sufficient to float father him- 
self. The temperature is regulated by streams 
of hot and cold water from the different Cal- 
deiras ; and the soapy softness of the water is 






MEMOIR. 135 

indescribable. You arise from a warm bath 
invigorated and refreshed, and you can lie an 
hour without weariness and with no injurious 
effect. 

Monday, 17th. After visiting the baths we 
went on an expedition to a lake in the moun- 
tains, called the Lake of the Furnas. The 
scenery we passed through was wild and beau- 
tiful. We ascended to a great elevation, now 
catching glimpses of the lovely valley behind 
us, and now passing through ravines which 
shut out all but their own grandeur. Our legs 
were literally dangling over precipices, where a 
false step would have precipitated us, jack and 
all, into the unexplored regions of futurity. On 
ascending a summit of unusual steepness, the lake 
appeared embosomed in mountains, with pic- 
turesque points jutting into it, and, in the whole 
effect, a most beautiful piece of water. Our old 
friends, the herons, were feeding quietly before 
us on its shores ; and I almost imagined that I 
recognized an old acquaintance who had often 
eluded my aim at Naushon. Upon the very 
borders of the lake were Caldeiras of boiling 
water, emitting their columns of vapor, and 
working as violently as at the Furnas. We 
descended to the lake, followed its shores a 



136 MEMOIR. 

short distance, and commenced another eleva- 
tion which grew steeper, steeper, steeper still as 
we ascended. We were so near our place of 
destination that father proceeded on foot, while 
Mr. Torrey, Mr. Hickling and myself, branched 
off to see a cascade, which leaped down through 
a ravine, falling perpendicularly from a high 
cliff, and appearing like a silver thread among 
the mountains. We also visited a cavern formed 
from the solid rock with great regularity ; at the 
extreme end a fountain of the clearest water 
gushed from the rock, and flowed into the cas- 
cade. The whole ravine was of the wildest de- 
scription and in the rainy season forms the bed 
of a torrent, which must be a magnificent sight. 
The particular object of our expedition was to 
visit an uncompleted house on the border of the 
lake, which stands a monument of English ex- 
travagance. A Mr. Harvey, admiring the place, 
which is certainly very picturesque, commenced 
a large stone house, and, having expended five 
thousand dollars, returned to England, married, 
and concluded to spend his winters elsewhere. 
On our return we passed along the summits of 
mountains overlooking the Furnas Valley, and, 
after a glorious ride, in spite of rain and other 
inconveniences, reached home in safety. 



MEMOIR. 137 

Saturday, Jan. 28. We were informed to- 
night that Tomasia gave a ball at her cottage, 
on account of the preservation of her husband 
from the dangers of the sea, and we were in- 
vited to attend. This husband of her's is well 
described by the Messrs. Bullard as a hairy, 
fierce-looking Portuguese, half drunk at all 
times ; and certainly we have seen no reason to 
contradict their description. He was blown off 
the coast in his boat some time since, and To- 
masia offered up prayers and entreaties for his 
safe return, like a dutiful wife and good Catho- 
lic, instead of a sensible woman, who would 
have prayed as anxiously for his continued ab- 
sence. And now this safe return was celebrated 
by him with renewed attention to his bottle, 
and by Tomasia with the ball. 

At seven o'clock we were escorted by Jose 
and Tomasia to her house. We entered a room 
where men and women, girls, boys, babies, and 
dogs were grouped together promiscuously ; and, 
passing up a narrow flight of stairs, entered the 
upper apartment, where three chairs showed 
that we were expected guests, as there were no 
others in the room. Here was the elect of the 
company, and seated in the midst — a picture of 
semi-drunken dignity — was Antonio Bicho him- 



138 MEMOIR. 

self. Tomasia, a sham shirt and collar, and his 
best clothes, had done their most to render him 
agreeable, but nature was too much for them. 
On a table opposite stood the offering to the 
Holy Ghost, a pile of ribbons and flowers, very- 
much resembling the ornaments of the church 
altars, &c, and which was intended to represent 
their gratitude for Antonio's preservation. After 
a short time spent in pronouncing muito bons 
upon this specimen of Tomasia' s taste, we were 
ushered down stairs again, followed by our 
three chairs and all the eclat. The dancing 
then commenced. The room was very small, 
and thirty or forty promiscuous people filled it 
well. The women sat on the floor in a semi- 
circle around the dancers ; some of them en- 
gaged in family matters with their babies, and 
all perfectly free and unrestrained. The danc- 
ing was graceful, though very much circum- 
scribed in limits. It consisted in threading past 
one another, with but little regard for partners, 
or apparently for figures. The musician joined 
in the dance, bearing his guitar in one hand, 
and guiding it over the heads of the belles with 
much skill and grace. All joined in the music 
by snapping their thumbs like castanets, and 
one always sang, sometimes the musician, some- 



MEMOIR. 139 

times a fat lively damsel, who was a belle of 
the night. We soon observed one of the girls, 
who was decidedly the handsomest we have yet 
seen. That is saying but little, however. She 
would be called beautiful anywhere. Her fea- 
tures were so Grecian and delicate that we did 
not believe her a Portuguese ; and I have not 
regretted my ignorance of the language so much 
at any time, as when being unable to say a word 
to the pretty Portuguese dancer. The dresses 
of the young ladies were sadly wanting in 
grace, and in those feminine articles called bus- 
tles. A shawl and a string of beads were the 
only ornaments, even of our rapparega boneta ; 
but nature had more than made up the de- 
ficiency with her. The beaux were grown-up 
men, in shirts and trousers, some of them shoe- 
less and stocking-ignorant. One was a tall, 
good-natured, sailor-mannered man, who danced 
with ease and grace, befitting a large theatre. 
He was exceedingly dexterous in avoiding col- 
lisions, .and glided through the most twisting 
evolutions with safety to all concerned. When 
the dance ceased, the girls sat down on the 
floor in front of us. The men lit their cigars, 
such as had them, and scattered about. We 
soon saw a stir among our seated dancers, and 



140 MEMOIR. 

the " picanini" fat songster jumped up over 
and past the others, and singling out Mr. T., 
jammed a bouquet of flowers into his bosom, 
with great vivacity and an undistinguishable 
flow of Portuguese. He returned his thanks; 
she retreated, and, gaining her old position, 
prepared a new sortie upon father, and suc- 
ceeded in effecting a lodgment in his vest, 
which he — having acquired the requisite Por- 
tuguese in the mean time — returned with many 
mueto obregardoes. I came next in turn, but 
fortunately received mine from the more delicate 
hands of a younger belle, who placed it grace- 
fully in my vest. The dancing then commenced 
again, and a new specimen now attracted our 
attention. A sleek-haired youth, dressed in a 
straight-hanging striped coat, shoes, straps, vest 
and cravat. He was evidently a Portuguese 
tailor's sign-post, and he knew his value in the 
company. His hair was cut a la mode in the 
latest fashion de cidata, as I knew to my cost ; 
and he entered the dance, guitar in hand, with 
great importance. However he played very 
well, and excited much amusement by his 
songs. We now sent Jose for a flask of wine, 
as a return for the flowers presented to us ; and 
while he was gone, the noise at the door becom- 



MEMOIR. 141 

ing rather importunate, a woman went to bar it 
and refuse further admission into our already- 
overstocked room; when suddenly the upper 
half of the door was burst in, and the woman 
thrown against the wall. Antonio had been 
sitting in meditative dignity upon the stairs 
until now ; and before we knew that anything 
unusual had occurred, he was in the middle of 
the room, making for the door, his features 
literally working with rage. The women gath- 
ered around him, and by degrees he was suffi- 
ciently calm to content himself with carrying 
two huge stones up stairs, to throw from the 
window, if the attack should be repeated. Our 
good-natured sailor and several others followed 
him, and the stones were soon heard to fall 
harmlessly on the ground. A moment after, 
and one of them was banged violently against 
the door. Antonio and the whole posse came 
rushing down instanter, he in a paroxysm of 
fury. His dark face, darker still, his worst ex- 
pression worse than ever, and himself outdone 
in rage. Clubs and sticks were in requisition ; 
the dance was stopped. The women, girls, 
men, boys, babies, dogs, and sticks, all in a high 
state of excitement, contributed each his share 
to the general confusion. Even our sailor friend 



142 MEMOIR. 

put on his coat, and with some appearance of 
anger followed Antonio to the door ; whether to 
assist or restrain him, we could not determine. 

The confusion was now indescribable, and 
Portuguese strictly, all talking and none listen- 
ing, all acting and nothing done. I noticed our 
pretty belle, standing one side with an expres- 
sion of some anxiety, and shortly after she de- 
parted in one of the never-failing blue capots 
and hoods. The row gradually subsided ; An- 
tonio recovered his senses; the dancing com- 
menced again, but the charm was gone; the 
blue capot did not return. Jose, who had re- 
turned without the wine, saying the time was 
not good for it, went again and brought it to the 
door, where Tomasia received it under her 
apron, and passed it up stairs. At the close of 
the dance, we bowed our bonos nuits, and took 
our departure. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

my dear mother. Villa Franca, Feb. 4, 1843. 

You have now heard from us several times, 
without doubt, and, being satisfied as to our 
safety, will be interested in the wonders we do 
see and tell. These I intend to leave, as father's 



MEMO IE. 143 

particular province, since he is busily engaged, 
estimating and journalizing the size, cost, and 
capabilities of all the island peculiarities, from 
the Peak of Pico to the pigs in the street ; which 
last indeed form no small part of the city popu- 
lation. I know, my dear mother, that you are 
sufficiently interested in your darling son to care 
to hear of his peculiar employments, and these, 
together with our household affairs, which I 
think myself particularly qualified to describe 
after an education at Cambridge, perfected after- 
wards by cousin Sally's example, I shall give 
my principal attention to. Before Ave arise from 
our night's repose, let me give you some idea of 
what that repose probably was. The only bed- 
stead of the company is appropriated by father, 
and he boasts of having obtained it, by first 
choice, without any delay. Mr. Torrey and I 
have our mattresses on three chairs and a settee, 
which makes a very light and convenient affair, 
as the Pickwick cobbler said of his four-post 
bedstead- Although we are out of hearing of 
cousin Sally's impertinent bell, we rise at seven 
or half past, as early as we should at home un- 
der its influence, which fully proves that it is a 
useless vexation, I think. . . . We then re- 
pair to a heap of oranges always at hand in the 



144 MEMOIR. 

corner of our larder-room, and selecting six, with 
two bananas from the bunch, make an ante- 
breakfast; and, at that time, I always think of 
my dear friends at home, and wish they were 
here to assist me. Latin, with Mr. Torrey, 
uses up the hour before breakfast, and Lyell, 
with interruptions, the hour after. The busi- 
ness of the day then commences. If an expe- 
dition is to be made, our jack-man, Arania, 
brings to the door three asses, armed with large 
saddles, with cross sticks in front and behindj 
between which we seat ourselves, on our pil- 
lows for cushions, with our legs dangling down 
on one side. It is an easy way of riding. The 
asses seldom go out of a walk, and you would 
admire it, I know. Not so, father — though 
he is growing acclimated by constant use, and 
no other alternative. .... The scenery is 
wild and beautiful beyond anything I have ever 
seen; and the roads are what you would con- 
sider it impossible for any beast to pass. Our 
feet are often literally hanging over precipices 
many feet deep, where a false step would be 
fatal, and the jacks always choose the edge of 
the cliff with a sort of pertinacity anything but 
agreeable. I have often seen all clear for a 
jump, almost expecting to see my jack go turn- 



MEMOIR. 145 

bling over. This was at first, however. We 
have now reached such a pitch of confidence, 
that no considerations of the difficulties of the 
road deter us. Where jack has been, there 
jack can go, is our motto. When we do not ride, 
I often go off drawing ; the materials of which 
are inexhaustible. I shall bring home sketches 
enough, such as they are ; that is, merely rough 
sketches, to give some idea of the country, but 
containing little excellence in themselves. The 
attention I attract on such occasions is wonder- 
ful even for a people so lazy as these Portuguese. 
The men let their jacks stop and graze, while 
they look on in wonder. The boys and girls 
collect around me, often forming a semicircle, 
entirely shutting out the landscape. The wo- 
men bring their babies from the cradle to see 
the grand show, while the pigs, dogs and hens 
join in the wonderment at a respectful distance. 
I have counted twenty individual souls, engaged 
by the half hour at a time in staring at me. 
And at one time I was so celebrated that a troop 
of boys would follow me whenever I went out 
with my drawing-book. Like many other great 
persons, I have lost my consequence by famili- 
arity, which loss I by no means regret, as it was 
attended by an inconvenient train of admirers. 



146 MEMOIR. 

Our dinner hour is three, and we live simply- 
enough to satisfy even you, mother. Fish is 
our staple, which, together with potatoes, bread 
and butter, forms our usual repast. Father 
talks about sending to Ponta for provisions now 
and then, but having declared that he can live 
as simply as we choose, he does not like to do 
so, on his own responsibility. The evenings are 
spent in writing, reading, chess, and the never- 
failing all-fours, at which Mr. T. takes my place, 
very much to my satisfaction. 

Our time passes quickly and pleasantly here. 
The natural curiosities of the place are unlim- 
ited, and, unlike Santa Cruz, there is variety 
enough to keep us fully employed. Father is 
receiving daily benefit from the baths, and Mr. 
T. and I from the oranges. And so, my dear 
mother, we are passing our bachelor winter. 
Give my best love to all friends. Of course 
you will write by all opportunities, and you 
may be sure we are expecting letters with great 
eagerness. Your affectionate son, 

Robert. 



FROM HIS JOURNAL. 

Sunday, Feb. 5th, 1843. This last week has 
passed quickly, and brought its routine of em- 



MEMOIR. 147 

ployments and share of variety and pleasure. 
We have made three remarkable expeditions 
this week, one to the Lake of Crongo in the 
mountains, one to our Lady of Peace, a little 
chapel perched on a hill back of the town ; 
and one to the island of Villa Franca. The 
island is a very singular one — a crater in the 
sea. It consists of a huge, dark, back of cliffs 
or hills, enclosing a basin, which was evi- 
dently once a crater. There is a narrow en- 
trance to it, through which you pass from the 
heaving ocean at once into what appears like a 
mountain lake, with no more motion to its wa- 
ters than the ripple of the breeze. We climbed 
the ridge enclosing it without difficulty, and 
had a fine view of the sea, and of the Villa 
Franca, and the whole range of island moun- 
tains behind it. On our way we disturbed 
flocks of wild pigeons, which darted out from 
the recesses of the cliffs, and flew off to still 
more secluded retreats. I attempted to sketch 
the basin, but found that all was on too grand 
a scale for paper to contain. On the south side 
of this island is a needle, separated from it, and 
rising with great regularity three hundred feet. 
It is the most remarkable natural curiosity of 
the kind in the world. Its sides are perpen- 



148 



MEMOIR. 



dicular, and regular even in their irregularity, 
and the proportions are excellent, so much so 
that one cannot comprehend its size at all. The 
pigeons dart out from its sides, and circle around 
its top in flocks, and the sea beats and dashes 
against its base, sending clouds of foam high 
up, but nothing in comparison to its towering 
height. These are the only vestiges of life or 
motion near it. A cliff as rugged as itself shuts 
out all view on one side, and on the other, 
nothing breaks the uniformity of the ocean. 
There it stands, a needle in Ocean's pincushion. 
The Lake of Crongo is quite a ride from here, 
up in the mountains. After ascending to a 
great elevation, we proceeded on a level for 
some distance, and then came unexpected y 
upon a crater, with this lake at the bottom. 
Its peculiarity, apart from the singular volcanic 
appearance, was its extreme regularity. The 
lip of the crater preserved a perfect level on all 
sides but one, and formed an entire circle ; and 
the precipitous sides were regular also, and per- 
fectly tunnel-shaped. The lake at the bottom 
was circular, and such a one as would be formed 
by filling a tunnel half up with water. One 
seagull wheeled over head, and it was only by 
following him with your eye, and measuring 



MEMOIR. u 149 

his distance, that you could form an idea of the 
vastness of the crater. A zigzag path led to the 
shore of the lake, and the echo both at top and 
bottom was grand. It seemed to follow and 
ring around the sides as when you run your 
finger over the rim of a tumbler. Even the 
scream of the gull echoed from side to side, and 
startled you with its distinctness. The sides of 
the crater were covered with rich foliage, com- 
posed mostly of the mountain heath, which 
grows here in such abundance. 

Sunday, 12th Feb. Walked out after dinner, 
and passed by a convent belonging to Senor 
Simplici, the great man of Villa Franca. This 
convent is on the highest land, immediately ad- 
joining the town. It commands a fine view of 
the ocean, and was formerly occupied by friars. 
The main building incloses a court, with a 
fountain in its centre, which jets out as pretty a 
stream of water as in the days of its prosperity. 
Verandas look out upon the court on all four 
sides, and the monks' cells open into these pas- 
sages. Everything is exceedingly solid, and 
very little injured by time. While passing to- 
day we heard a chant in the chapel adjoining, 
and entering a side door, which was open, we 
found mass performing, and stopped to see. 



150 MEMOIR. 

The ornaments of the chapel were in better taste 
than any we have yet seen. Women, clad in 
their singular cloaks and hoods, were squatting 
in the middle of the church, some in large 
groups, some scattered along two or three to- 
gether. They seemed very little occupied with 
religious thoughts, and gave their attention to 
us undividedly. Their way of perking up one 
corner of their hoods, and peeping out, was pe- 
culiar. The men grouped together in the rear, 
outside a railing, which inclosed the middle for 
the women alone. There were no seats; the 
men stood, the women sat on the floor. As each 
one finished her supposed mental devotions she 
arose. An affectionate parting then took place, 
in which she pressed the hand of her sitting 
friends, and whispered passing blessings. 

Saturday, 18th. Went with father to the con- 
vent of the nuns. The senior owner accom- 
panied father over the whole building and 
grounds. I strayed about sketching, and passed 
the whole day there with much delight. This 
convent was built two hundred and sixty years 
ago, and has withstood the great earthquake, 
which is said to have destroyed the whole town. 
It contained fifty nuns, and over ninety ser- 
vants in the days of its prosperity, and was dis- 



MEMOIR. 151 

banded by Don Pedro about ten years since, and 
the nuns scattered over the town on a pension of 
a hundred and fifty dollars a year each. The 
convent is now owned by a Portuguese gentle- 
man, who is turning its grounds into orange 
gardens, and its walls into building materials. 
It is, therefore, greatly dilapidated. In fact, 
excepting the church, which he has left from 
religious scruples, probably, not a vestige of its 
former splendor remains. It must have been 
very extensive once, inclosing a square like the 
Friar's convent, but much larger, upon which 
the nuns' cells opened. A window was allowed 
for each cell, from which there was a fine view 
of the mountains on one side and gardens on 
the other. Now neither roofs nor floors re- 
main. Grape-vines have been planted wherever 
a square foot of ground is unoccupied by build- 
ings, and over the ruins themselves ; and under 
these you have to walk. In a distant corner of 
this extensive grapery, I found a little chapel 
with a bell propped up by its side, which was 
uninjured, and just as it had been left by the 
nuns; our senior considering it sacrilegious to 
remove any of the religious appurtenances. 
Thus he has left the church to decay and fall 
to pieces in its own good time, and all the 



152 MEMOIR. 

statues and representations of the virgin and 
saints are unmoved, and even treated with some 
respect, as we noticed he took off his hat on 
entering a room where our Saviour and St. 
Michael were presiding over the desolation. 
This little chapel still retains its ornaments and 
images, though much defaced by neglect. St. 
Michael has lost his head, and St. Peter an 
arm, and their respective habitations are faded 
and broken. The world has evidently gone 
hard with them since the days of the gentle 
sisterhood. Their prosperity had departed, and 
a violent yet lingering death was all that re- 
mained for them now. Several Latin books 
were scattered around, and music was lying 
open on the principal altar. I wanted to ab- 
stract a book or two, and many other things in 
fact, but contented myself with a little image 
of the virgin, which I took out of pity, and one 
or two small articles, which were thrown away 
in a rubbish corner, or lying on the floor. Of 
course, it was wrong to take anything, and I 
had many misgivings, but pity prevailed, and 
our mother was deposited in my pocket. 

Monday, 20th. Strong wind and squally. 
Went off with Mr. Torrey on a shore cruise to 
see the waves. The beach magnificent. Enor- 



MEMOIR. 153 

mous waves rolled in, breaking with a sharp 
crash like thunder, and sending a mass of foam 
prancing along till it shot far up on the beach. 
The sea had the most wintry aspect possible, 
and reminded us strikingly of a drifting snow- 
storm. Its surface was covered with snowy 
foam, and as far out as we could see, the spray 
from the tops of the waves was blown off in 
clouds, and drifted along the surface far away 
to leeward. We climbed along the coast, taking 
shelter under the rugged volcanic rocks, in the 
showers, (of which there were four during our 
scramble) and had a fine view of the sea, on a 
rock-bound coast, as this undoubtedly is. One 
great mass of rock projected out, over which 
the sea broke with great magnificence, covering 
it completely, and leaving torrents of foam run- 
ning down its sides, which always remained 
till replenished by a new wave. Nothing can 
surpass these sea-views. The rocks are very 
wild and jagged, so sharp as almost to cut your 
hands when you giasp them. Caverns are 
worn in them, and deep ravines through which 
the sea rushes frightfully. Their color is almost 
black, which, contrasting with the foam, very 
much heightens the effect. The beaches are 
formed of the same rocks, crumbled and worn 



154 MEMOIR. 

into sand, and are consequently dark, which 
struck us as peculiar at first, though now one 
of our beaches would appear as strange. We 
saw the sea break on the island, and send a 
cloud of foam up to a ledge on the needle more 
than two-thirds its height — certainly two hun- 
dred feet high. 

Afternoon, went to a cliff opposite the island. 
The island is half a mile distant, and the great 
waves that rolled in, reached entirely across in 
an unbroken line, one end of them breaking on 
the island, and the other on our cliff. Some- 
times the space between us was a perfect sea of 
foam. 

Tuesday, 21st. My birthday. Had a ride 
with father. Turned up a ravine road, crossed 
a mountain-stream, and stopped at a quinta 
(garden) — cut boxwood canes ad libitum, , as 
no one appeared to prevent. Father had great 
scruples, or talked about them, but cut when- 
ever he found a stick to suit him. At the end 
of the garden, came to a glorious mountain cas- 
cade, which fell sixty feet perpendicularly. It 
shot out from a cliff of rock, through which it 
had eaten a passage, and came down a perfect 
mass of foam, striking the rocks below with 
great force, and dashing the spray in all direc- 



MEMOIR. 155 

tions. The sun shining on the outer circle of 
spray, caused rainbow tints to flash out, which 
seemed to be struck from the rocks, by the fall- 
ing water, like sparks from flint. The high 
cliffs half encircled the whole, and formed an 
amphitheatre which added to the selectness of 
the scene. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

dear mother. Villa Franca, Feb. 28th, 1843. 

These, my dear mother, will be our last de- 
spatches home, probably. The time here is 
now quite short — only two weeks more at Villa 
Franca, and about three on the island ; and I 
am very anxious to improve it as much as pos- 
sible, and see all there is to be seen before we 
leave. But the weather seems obstinately bent 
upon opposing us. We have an expedition 
planned to the lake of fire, a crater lake among 
the mountains in the interior, from which there 
is a fine view of both sides of the island, and 
have been waiting four days for good weather. 
In nothing are we so much disappointed here 
as in the weather. In these " Islands of the 
blessed/ 7 where canary-birds sing, and flowers 
bloom in the open air all the year round, there 



156 



is a constant succession of cold, damp and rainy 
days, many of which we are unable to stir out 
of the house without being ducked, and unable 
to remain in it without perpetual shivering, 
as there are no fireplaces and our stove don't 
work, and no possibility of getting warm again 
if you are once cold. When this lake expedi- 
tion is accomplished, I am determined to spend 
several days at the Valley of the Furnas, if I 
have to go alone. We are now thoroughly ac- 
quainted with Villa Franca and its vicinity. I 
have taken a number of sketches, few of which 
will come to you in anything like a finished 
state, but they may give some idea of the kind 
of scenery here, though of the scenery itself no- 
thing can give an adequate description. There 
are several sketches of a convent, which I vis- 
ited several times, and enjoyed more from the 
associations connected with it than any intrinsic 
beauty it contained. The mountain scenery is 
too grand for my artistical capacity, as is all 
the natural scenery here, in fact ; but I have re- 
duced and crammed and jammed it in, and in 
that state you shall have it, though I am half 
inclined to tear up every sketch I take, because 

it don't suit me 

Not a word have we heard from you yet ; and 



MEMOIR. 157 

now it is almost time for us to leave, and of 
course lose all chance of hearing. There has 
been some mismanagement about it ; for with- 
out doubt you have written, and the letters are 
on the island or on the way. 

What do you think of our present plan for re- 
turning come ? Shall not we be travelled gen- 
tlemen when we do return ? It delights me 
greatly, and really seems more probable than 
any other. If the schooner sails for Lisbon at 
the time set, I don't think there is much doubt 
but that we shall go in her. From Lisbon we 
go to Gibraltar, and how far up the Mediter- 
ranean is not settled at present, and depends 
upon opportunities direct for home. It would 
amuse you to hear us, sitting quietly in our 
parlor, discuss the " pros and cons" of an ex- 
pedition to England, or to Maderia, the West 
Indies, &c. or to Lisbon, and thence direct to 
some United States port ; or further on to Gib- 
raltar and Marseilles ; or whether, when so far, 
we won't go up the Mediterranean, and as we 
shall never have such another opportunity, keep 
on to the Pyramids and Constantinople. Father 
has letters of credit, and money enough, and 
thinks it can't be better spent ; and Mr. Torrey 
and I offer no objections to that part of the plan. 



158 MEMOIR. 

So, my dear mother, I will take this opportuni- 
ty to bid you an affectionate farewell for a year 
or so. You have been so humane as to give us 
a long line, as in the case of the Naushon fish- 
hawk, and like him, we may take the appor- 
tunity to escape from such rigorous confine- 
ment as you impose upon us at home. How- 
ever, your line holds strong enough now, and 
if you only pull persuasively, and are not too 
authoritative, I think it will draw us home 
again after all. 

Father has written you such a long letter, that 
I don't care to describe any of our employments 
or expeditions, for fear of contradicting some of 
his stories. . . . . Now my dear mother, I 
must close. I hope you are enjoying your soli- 
tary winter at home, as well as we our roving 
one, and wish I could be with you, if only for 
a five minutes' talk. You may be sure, when 
we do get home, we shall be content to remain 
there. Travelling and sight-seeing will do for 
a few months, but they are no recompense for 
the enjoyments of a pleasant home and society 
of kind friends. Farewell. 

Ever your affectionate son, 

Robert. 



MEMOIR. 159 

FROM HIS JOURNAL. 

Thursday, March 2d. Every prospect of a 
fair day at last, and preparations were made for 
an early breakfast, and for our long-contem- 
plated expedition to Alagoa de Fogo, (Lake of 
Fire). That is to say, I was up at half past 
six, hurrying father, persuading Mr. Torrey, 
driving Jose and Tomasia, and exciting as great 
a commotion as possible, without which a Por- 
tuguese could never understand that time was 
valuable. At half past seven we were all ready 
except the jacks ; at a quarter of eight we only 
waited for a light cloud to sail past, wiiich 
alarmed father, and at eight we started. As 
we proceeded, the road grew very steep, and 
only wide enough for one jack. It was in fact 
a mere ravine used as a path to bring wood 
from the mountains. Father's jack was down 
on his knees and nose twice. Arania, by dint 
of imprecations and force, got him up again. 
At length we came out of the ravine, and 
wound along the side of the mountain. Our 
path was a mere shelf, as it were, suspended 
between the mountain above and below. As 
we proceeded, several beautiful cascades ap- 
peared, one above the other. The mountains 



160 MEMOIR. 

were clothed with a short thick heath, which 
adds to the softness in the distance, but takes 
away much of the wildness and the feeling of 
insecurity and danger. At the banks of a nar- 
row stream our jacks stopped, and Arania said 
the road was impassable for them any further, 
which surprised us, as we thought nothing was 
impassable for a jack. The Alagoa was about 
a mile distant. Mr. Torrey and I immediately 
set off; found that an impassable jack-road was 
almost so for any one. Clambered along — 
passed a desolate plain covered with stunted 
heath, and suddenly the lake opened before us. 
The first view was beautiful, as it was unex- 
pected. The lake was very large, and encircled 
by a band of wild mountains, whose precip- 
itous sides formed a huge crater. And the first 
idea that struck me was, that from this the 
island was belched forth. We then separated, 
and each went opposite ways in search of a view 
of Ribera Grand, and the sea on the north side 
of the island. I clambered along a goat-path, 
down ravines and up the precipitous sides until, 
when almost exhausted, I reached a peak, from 
which both sides of the island were plain in 
sight. I was much surprised at its narrowness. 
The ridge, on which I stood, was the back-bone 



MEMOIR. 161 

of the island. On either side the mountains de- 
scended directly to the sea, whose broad surface 
extended as far as the eye could reach. The 
appearance was exactly as if the island had 
been thrown up from this crater, and rolled 
down on each side till it met the sea. Returned 
from my scramble, and met Mr. T. return- 
ing from his. He had been unsuccessful, and 
seen nothing. We were greatly surprised at 
seeing father's white hat appearing over the 
heath. With infinite labor he had scrambled 
up to the lake, and, seating himself on his 
cloak, he congratulated himself on his preserva- 
tion thus far, and opening the basket of provi- 
sions, did his best towards future preservation. 
I took a sketch, and we commenced our return. 
Road still worse on the descent — steep, steeper, 
steepest ! Aranha hung on to the tail of father's 
jack : took a turn with it round his hand ; jack 
pulled him along ; he slipped, and down he 
came on his back with his feet under the jack's 
heels, still holding hard by the tail while the 
jack dragged him along over the rocks and 
stones ; he recovered himself without letting go. 
and then rolled out a string of oaths large 
enough to choke any but a Portuguese jack- 
driver. We reached home in safety. 



162 MEMOIR. 

Sunday, March 5th. The first Sunday in 
Lent, and a great day for processions. In the 
morning attended the funeral of a nun, from a 
neighboring house to the burial-ground. The 
thirteen town priests came in procession from 
the church to the house, chanting a sort of dead 
march. A dingy, yellow silk banner preceded 
them, and the bier, which was of frame-work 
and open, followed. At the house they stopped 
the bier, carried it in, and returned soon with 
the body; the priests commenced their chant, 
and the procession moved on. The nun was 
ninety-six years old, and, of course, could have 
but few relatives. Some well-dressed gentle- 
men, however, followed the yellow banner, as 
mourners, I suppose, or out of respect to the 
deceased. The priests came next, and, lastly, 
the bier, borne on the shoulders of four men, 
and followed by half the rabble in town. At 
the cemetery the priests stopped by a little 
chapel, and increased their chant, and the bier 
and rabble turned off to the grave. The corpse 
was then taken from the bier, and lowered into 
the grave. It was dressed in black and white, 
no shroud and no coffin. A bunch of gaudy, 
artificial flowers was placed in a gauze mitre 
which surmounted the head. The common 



MEMOIR. 163 

thick shoes and white stockings were on the 
feet, and the whole dress was such as might 
have been worn by the person when living. 
The sexton then jumped in and arranged the 
dress, took out the flowers, placed a piece of 
cloth over the face, and the earth was thrown 
down. The whole ceremony was performed 
with much carelessness, and no solemnity ; 
and yet I liked laying the body in the earth, 
without sheet, or shroud, or coffin, much better 
than our custom. It was more natural. And 
what if the earth did fall upon the face, and 
close around the body ] It is pleasanter to think 
of it so, than shrouded in our paraphernalia of 
the dead. During the whole procession, all but 
the friends were uncovered. There were no 
monuments, no gravestones, and scarcely any 
mounds in the cemetery, and the graves could 
hardly be distinguished. After the burial, the 
hats were put on, the priests and gentlemen 
sauntered off in groups, and the omnipresent 
boys attended every one. 

Tuesday, March ?th. Started for the Valley 
of the Furnas, solus. The mountains were en- 
veloped in mist, as they have been for several 
days, while the sun shone bright on the sea, 
south of the island, and the shore was alter- 



164 MEMOIR. 

nately misty and bright, as the sea or land 
weather prevailed. Aranha, as usual, soon lost 
his small stock of patience with his jack, and 
the ride was so long that he exhausted all his 
oaths, which was more remarkable. He then 
got into several disputes with the jack, as to 
which was the best of two sides of the road, 
and which was the middle of it; and, having 
no other conclusive argument left, made great 
use of his goad. This the jack resented, and 
between them both I expected to be sacrificed. 
The continuance of the conflict compelled me 
to be on the qui vive all the way, lest I should 
be dislodged by some of the manoeuvres hap- 
pening unexpectedly ; and during this by-play, 
the road was more dangerous than any I have 
yet seen here. It ran along, or rather it was a 
ledge on the face of enormous cliffs, which form 
the south bulwark of the island. In places 
they were literally perpendicular from the road, 
which was not five feet wide, to the sea far be- 
low. I could have tossed my cap from one to 
the other, and as there was not even a slight 
fence to prevent, my jack could have tossed me 
as easily. Besides this, there were steep ascents 
and steep descents, and all the varieties of slip- 
periness and rockiness ; and if any one wants 



MEMOIR. 165 

a worse road for a savage driver and a mad jack 
to try their experiments on, at his expense, he 
might go further and not find it. 

The clear weather had driven the mist to the 
mountains, and the view from these cliffs was 
magnificent. After passing through Ribeira 
Quent, a mere string of fishing-huts skirting 
the shore, and half enclosed by steep moun- 
tains, we turned off by the river, and struck in 
towards the Furnas. As we ascended the moun- 
tains, we entered the mist, and presently every- 
thing was hidden from sight. The scenery, 
what I could see of it, seemed to resemble the 
Lagoa ride. The character of the mountains, 
ridged, irregular, and covered with short heath 
to the summit, was the same, as indeed it is 
throughout the whole island. Arrived at the 
Valley of the Furnas, with water dripping from 
every part that had been at all exposed. These 
drizzles are very penetrating, and nearly resem- 
ble a Scotch mist, I should think. I owe many 
an escape from a drenching to my invaluable 
cloak, which I never ride without. Showers 
are so frequent, that every one you meet on a 
jack, carries a cloak, or a blue cotton umbrella. 

The description of my first ride to the Valley 



166 MEMOIR. 

of the Furnas seems to me now a great humbug. 
I can hardly believe I wrote so exaggerated an 
affair. The jack-riding, the steepness of the 
way, the precipices, the height, all, except the 
beauty of the scenery, seems changed. Why, 
to-day I galloped over places that I almost trem- 
bled at before, and down descents that I then 
thought myself lucky to get down safe in any 
way. Even father would think nothing of it 
now, though he was entirely overpowered by 
his former experience. . . . 

Friday, March 10th. Last day at the Furnas. 
The mist cleared away by eleven o'clock. The 
sun came out bright ; not a cloud was to be 
seen ; the air was as mild as a pattern day in 
June, and as clear as a northwester in October ; 
a perfect day anywhere. How much more than 
perfect was it in the Valley of the Furnas ! 
After a light dinner we mounted our jacks, and 
bid farewell forever to the happy valley. The 
road ascended gradually along the mountains, 
which form the cup of the crater, and our last 
look was a long one. Of all the beautiful views 
we have seen here, this is the most perfect ; the 
one which I shall most delight to recall. Not 
that it contains any great variety of scenery, a 
distant landscape, or a bold foreground, for it 



MEMOIR. 167 

has none of these ; but it is a perfect whole — 
perfect in its own loveliness. 



The magnificent scenery of nature, with 
which Robert was surrounded, while at St. 
Michaels, the quiet, secluded life he led, apart 
from the busy, bustling world of business and 
frivolous pleasures, tended to calm and elevate 
his mind. There was more room for that 
"quiet contemplation/ 7 which ministered to the 
inner life. His last year of college life had 
been one of excitement ; with the buoyancy of 
spirits natural to youth, he had been carried 
along by the current, like a mountain stream. 
But as the waters of the mountain stream some- 
times settle down into the quiet lake, reflecting 
from its bosom the beauty of earth and sky, so 
were his feelings gradually changing, till they 
settled more into the calm of a serene and 
thoughtful life. 

At Ponta Delgada, and afterwards at Fayal, 
the travellers found a few very pleasant and in- 
telligent people. But the climate, which was 
that season less mild than usual, was too cold 
and damp. He returned home late in May, 
with health rather impaired than improved. 



16S MEMOIR. 






He was rejoiced to get among his friends, and 
anticipated great benefit from a summer at 
Naushon; but even that now failed, and the 
disease was making progress. 

It was now evident that he could not go back 
to college. This was, perhaps, the severest trial 
of his life. To obtain an education had been 
the one dear and long-cherished object of his 
hopes, and every nearer view had only rendered 
it more dear and precious. There was nothing 
of ease or personal comfort that he would not 
sacrifice for it ; no privation, no amount of labor 
or bodily suffering, that he would not gladly 
endure. In his frequent attacks of illness for 
years, his first painful feeling, next to the 
thought of the anxiety it must cause his pa- 
rents, had always been on account of the in- 
terruption to his studies. But he had consoled 
himself with the thought that it was only an in- 
terruption, and that, as his circumstances were 
not such as required him to enter early upon 
business, he might still find time to carry out 
his purpose. But now, to see his hopes not only 
deferred, but broken off, and life a blank with 
respect to the object nearest his heart, threw 
sometimes a shade of sadness over his mind. 



MEMOIR. 169 

It was to be expected that these things would 
affect the natural buoyancy of his spirits, and 
prevent his enjoying the pleasant people who 
visited the family at Naushon, as he would 
otherwise have done, or taking the same inter- 
est in mere amusements. Nature and solitude 
were more in harmony with his feelings now. 
He often went out with his gun, and spent 
many hours in the woods where he might be 
undisturbed in his thoughts. They were no 
doubt such as those only can best understand, 
who, like him, have been compelled to relin- 
quish the most cherished objects of life on its 
threshold — to feel that home, and friends, and 
this beautiful world are slowly but surely glid- 
ing from their embrace — soon to be only treas- 
ures of memory and the affections. And yet 
there was nothing of gloom, no repining ; a more 
calm and thoughtful manner only, which told 
of the inner life. 

During this last summer on Naushon (1843,) 
several ,of his young friends visited him. He 
entered into their amusements, and enjoyed 
their society, perhaps as much as he ever did, 
but in a more quiet way. The last party in 
particular — a bright and joyous one — spent a 
happy week on the island. After they had left 



170 MEMOIR. 

— all but one — Robert wrote the following 
lines. The allusions are local , . and belong to 
the occasion, but will be understood by those 
who were present, and so will the mixture of 
playfulness with an under current of deep 
thought and feeling, by those who knew him at 
this period of his life. They are a perfect illus- 
tration of his character — like the music of his 
own island, in which the light and cheerful song 
of birds is mingled with the solemn bass of the 
ocean waves. 

You said, we should not miss you, 

But it never can be known, 
How sorrowful the Island seems 

To us while here alone. 
The only pleasure we can find, 

Which mournfully we share, 
Is to wander through the Island woods, 

Dreaming to find you there. 

We visit every shady bower, 

And every quiet glen, 
We carve your name upon the trees, 

And think to see you then, 
But though our fancy pictures you 

Midst all that 's bright and fair, 
The mournful thought comes over us, 

That still you are not there. 

We spring upon our Island steeds, 

And gallop off like mad, 
Hoping to drive away the thoughts 

That make us feel so sad ; 



MEMOIR. 171 

But still the Bluff recalls to mind 

Your forms and flowing hair, 
And we return in sadness, 

For we cannot find you there. 

On the solitary Duck-pond, 

The pines and mosses grey 
Are pictured just as faithfully, 

Now you have gone away. 
We gaze upon its tranquil breast, 

So calm, so more than fair, 
And see midst all its loveliness, 

You only, mirrored there. 

We would not wake from that bright dream ; 

It hallows the sweet spot, 
A memory of those happy days, 

Which cheer our lonely lot ; 
We 've gathered from its quiet waves, 

Lilies so pure and fair, 
That from their " perfect loveliness," 

We know we 've found you there. 



CHAPTER VII. 

Robert's letters from the south. 

Age 21. 

Late in November the family moved off the 
island to New Bedford. Robert's health had so 
often obliged him to go away, that he felt the 
strongest desire to spend this winter in quiet at 
home ; and, hoping that he might be able to do 
so, he commenced making arrangements for 
that purpose. The letters that follow, express 
his feelings at this fresh disappointment of his 
hopes, and the resigned yet cheerful spirit with 
which this and all his subsequent trials were 
met. 



TO J. h. morison. 

my dear mr. morison, New Bedford, Dec. 1, 1843. 

Your last letter gave me pleasure, real pleas- 
ure, as it always does to hear from you, and 
every one I have seen from you has some token 
of your interest in me. . . . We returned 
from Naushcn last Friday, having staid to the 
very limit of the Naushon season. The wind 
whistled about our ears, towards the last, wher- 



MEMOIR. 173 

ever we could put them. Still it was very- 
pleasant. We were all sorry to leave, and, had 
there been a few more winter conveniences, I 
believe the spring would have found us there. 
Now we are comfortably established in this good 
town. Father shoots about on all the business 
he can find, either at Boston, here, or on the 
island. Mother sits at home, knits, and medi- 
tates, as is her wont, you know : and I do as 
much as I can find to do, which is but little, I 
am sorry to say. You and I, Mr. Morison, are 
laid on the shelf for the present, at least, but at 
very different stages. If I had only half of your 
store of information and education to fall back 
upon, I should be comparatively contented ; but 
to feel that I am good for nothing, and never 
can be good for anything actively, is rather 
severe. Therefore I don't think much about it, 
which is, perhaps, the best way — take all the 
exercise I can get, and as much pleasure as 
comes along ; though, after all, I think a person 
has two natures — one, a careless, every-day, 
physical one, with which he openly goes through 
the world, and laughs or complains, as his dis- 
position may be ; and the other, the thinking 
self, which has its sway on all occasions of quiet 
contemplation. 



174 MEMOIR- 



TO J. H. MORISON. 

Milton, Dec. 17, 1843. 

. . . I think of you often, Mr. Morison, 
for there is always a strong sympathy between 
those who have the same kind of troubles. 
Yours are so much greater, that perhaps I turn 
to mine again with more satisfaction. 

After all, my dear Mr. Morison, the troubles 
of this world necessarily turn one's thoughts to 
the next, and none more so than the want of 
health. It is hard to bring one's thoughts to 
the realization of death ; to bring it home to 
one's self; and the mind can scarcely compre- 
hend it as a reality, in all its vastness. It is 
good to try, I think ; for life and death are 
problems that every one must work out, and 
each for himself, and through himself. Perhaps 
you can give me some new ideas on these sub- 
jects. I have been thinking of them lately, not 
with melancholy or desponding feelings ; but 
no one who thinks at all, can fail to be interested 
by them, particularly when his hold on life is as 
uncertain as I feel mine to be. I hoped to be 
able to spend this winter quietly at home, and, 
till lately, it seemed very probable. I have 
seen Dr. B. in Boston, and it is decided that I 



MEMOIR. 175 

had better go south ; not that it is necessary, 
or that I am worse to any extent, but it would 
be safer. I shall go to Savannah and St. Au- 
gustine, and shall leave some time this week ; 
as it is better to go soon, than to wait till trav- 
elling is more obstructed by the winter. So 
now, Mr. Morison, I can take my turn, and offer 
expeditions to you — Charleston, Savannah, 
St. Augustine, an excursion to New Orleans, 
to Havana, and next year, if you wish to go to 
Canton and the East Indies, perhaps I will ac- 
company you. 

Do write me, while I am away, that is, if 
you don't choose to accompany me. . . . 
And now, my dear Mr. Morison, good-by. 
Though you may not be with me, you have 
had that good influence upon me, the effects of 
which, I hope, will be with me always. 

Truly and affectionately yours, 

Robert Swain. 



On Friday, Dec. 22, Robert set out with the 
friend to whom this letter was written, for Sa- 
vannah. They were accompanied as far as 
New York by his father, who thus wrote to him 
the evening after they were separated. 



176 



MEMOIR. 



New York, Dec. 25. 

I cannot tell you, Robert, how much comfort 
our last evening together in your room has been 
to me. I could not say what I wanted to in 
words ; perhaps it was not necessary. But I 
felt that we understood each other better on the 
subject which has engrossed our thoughts. You 
are very dear to me, Robert, and your life most 
precious. All my hopes in this world are bound 
up in you ; and yet there are higher hopes and 
purer affections, and a heaven of perfect frui- 
tion, where no blight can come. Your life may 
be essential to my happiness here ; but when- 
ever, in the dispensations of Providence, I am 
called upon to part with you for a time, this 
may be far more so, for its influence on my 
happiness hereafter; and I thank God for 
having such a child. You have imprinted your 
footsteps on everything around me. What treas- 
ures of memory will be left when you are gone ; 
and not one sad thought to cloud their bright- 
ness ! I would not exchange them for all the 
world can give. How infinitely higher and 
holier are such memories than living honors or 
distinctions without them ! They will be ever 
present with me, my consolation and hope. I 
do not regard death with any shade of gloom, 



MEMOIR. 177 

and, for myself, have no strong desire for life. 
I may, perhaps, be useful to such as are, in any 
way, dependent on me, and there are many 
blessings to be grateful for ; but as one tie after 
another is severed, the desire to remain here 
grows weaker, and the wish to join those who 
have gone before strengthens. It may be for us 
to enjoy each other here some time longer, and 
you may yet live to see me go before you ; but 
I am sure that while we are together, our inter- 
course with each other will be one of enduring 
affection, that can know no change or diminu- 
tion, surviving our separation, and depriving it 
of its bitterness. Let this be your consolation, 
as it is mine. You will then feel no anxiety 
for me, or for yourself, and will continue to be, 
what you always have been, a blessing to your 
father. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

Baltimore, Dec. 26th, 1843. 

I have arrived thus far, my dear mother, in 
safety, without accident, without exposure, and 
as far as I am concerned, without fear of either. 
I hope you can say as much of yourself con- 
cerning me. I think, my dear mother may feel 



178 MEMOIR. 

quite easy about me now. I did not expect, 
and don't find, any inconveniences, except such 
as now interrupt our progress — that is, an east- 
terly storm, which I hope will be finished by 
to-morrow afternoon. The travelling I have 
not found at all tiresome ; and I don't believe 
I shall find riding all night in the cars any 
great matter either, for I find I can sleep under 
any circumstances. I begin to look forward to 
my winter away with some pleasure ; and this 
easterly weather makes the very thought of a 
soft, mild atmosphere refreshing. I wish I had 
more to write you, mother. I shall often think 
of you, and your quiet employments at home ; 
and when easterly winds become more frequent, 
and the streets are filled with mud and slush, 
and the winter is breaking up into spring, I 
shan't be at all surprised to see you finding 
your way to my warmer and drier resting- 
place. 



TO HIS FATHER. 

my dear father, Baltimore, Dec. 26th, 1843. 

We arrived here this afternoon safe and well. 
I have survived the journey so far without any 
fatigue or inconvenience, unless the weather 



MEMOIR, 



179 



may be called an inconvenience, for it has been 
anything but pleasant. I take great credit to 
myself for prudence this evening. Ole Bull has a 
grand concert, and I even went so far as to get 
a ticket; but finding the easterly wind and wea- 
ther continue, I gave it up again, and deter- 
mined to stay at home — that is, by no means at 
home, but at the Exchange Hotel, which I did 
much against my inclination. 

I hope, my dear father, this winter will be 
beneficial to me. I do not care so very much 
on my own account, for I often feel that it will 
be hard for my life to be a happy one, and death 
has no terrors for me, if I can only be prepared 
for it. But there are some ties hard to be broken. 
I know that I can contribute to your hap- 
piness, and I do hope that I may be permit- 
ted to be with you some time yet. And it 
will be my fault, if I do not do all I can for 
you, who have done so much, and have shown 
so much affection for me. 

God bless you, my dear father. 

Your son, Robert Swain. 



180 MEMOIR. 

TO HIS FATHER. 

Savannah, Dec. 31st, 1843. 

Here I am at Savannah, my dear father, in 
good order and condition. We have been very 
/fortunate in weather and passages all the way. 
Our night down the Chesapeake was as calm 
as could be, and the steamboat and accommo- 
dations excellent. We arrived at Portsmouth 
early in the morning, and left again at nine, 
in the cars for Weldon, where we arrived about 
four o'clock in the afternoon. The ride was 
not tiresome at all to either of us. The road 
lay through pine forests and swamps, perfectly 
level, uncultivated and uninteresting, but the 
weather was pleasant, and the country new to 
us. The railroad was as bad as it is possible 
for a railroad to be, and be travelled over. . . . 
However, we both enjoyed the ride. We left 
Weldon at twelve o'clock at night, and rode till 
about sunrise, when Ave stopped to breakfast. 
This part of the journey was tiresome enough, 
and would be bad for any one affected by 
travelling, and particularly for one subject 
to headaches, which, thank fortune, I am not. 
After breakfast we rode on, only stopping for 
wood and water, till noon, when we arrived at 




MEMOIR. 181 

Wilmington. This latter part of the route was 
also very tiresome; but it all did me no harm, 
as I expected. At Wilmington, we took the 
boat to Charleston, and arrived there at five in 
the morning. And finding that the boat for 
Savannah left at nine, and. it being a beautiful 
day, sunny, and perfectly calm, Ave decided to 
come directly on, which we did, and arrived 
here at seven last evening, after a very pleasant 
passage. I am as well, in every respect, as 
when I left home, and do not now feel any 
fatigue from the journey, and shall not feel any 
that a night or too will not cure. . . . Mon- 
day, Jan. 1st, 1841. A happy new year to you, 
my dear father, and may I be able to do my part 
towards making it one. 1 have not much more 
to write you about now, as I have not been 
here long enough to see or know much of the 
town, and am not settled at all yet. 
Your very affectionate son, 

Robert. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

my dear mother. Savannah, Jan. 5th, 1844. 

I am not yet sufficiently settled here to be able 
to give you much of an account of myself or my 



182 MEMOIR. 

plans. But still I know you will be glad to 
hear from me. The weather has been mostly- 
clear and pleasant since we arrived, and from 
ten o'clock till four it is warm and mild enough ; 
but the mornings and evenings are rather cool. 
Thermometer at 37° yesterday at seven o'clock, 
and 33° to-day; which, if it continues, will be 
sufficient to send me off farther south, very 
soon. As I have left home for warm weather, 
I don't intend to stop till I find it. I know that 
you are anxious that I should write how I am 
exactly and particularly, and where there is 
anything to tell, I will do so. I arrived here, 
as I have written you without having suffered 
from the journey in any way ; certainly as well 
as when I left home ; and so far I perceive no 
change, and I expect to give you accounts of 
improvement in one way or another soon. I 
am busily employed in getting a pony now, 
and it is by no means an easy thing to find a 
perfect one. Yesterday I rode one on trial out to 
a place called Bonaventure, five miles from here. 
Had a fine ride, and liked the pony very much, 
only, that coming home, he shyed and threw me 
off. Whereupon I concluded that he was rather 
too high for me. And I am now looking for a 
pony that, among his other accomplishments, is 



MEMOIR. 183 

low and near the ground. The roads here are 
admirably adapted to my style of horsemanship. 
They are all sand and no stones. A deep, light 
sand, in the city as well as out, which makes 
the walking unpleasant ; and the sidewalks do 
not extend far 

Now, my dear mother, I have put you in pos- 
session of my plans and expectations as well as 
I can at present. When I get settled at St. Au- 
gustine or elsewhere, I will write more about 
matters and things, and tell you what I am 
doing and seeing, &c. But now I am only 
planning what to do and see. 

My love to cousin Sally. And may you and 

do you, my dear mother, enjoy as much as you 

possibly can, in your own quiet, good way this 

winter ; and when your thoughts turn to your 

absent son, may they be as pleasant and happy 

as mine always are, and always will be, of 

you. 

Truly your son, Robert. 



TO HIS FATHER. 

St. Augustine, Jan. 18th, 1344. 

Now, my dear father, I write you from the 
Planters' Hotel, St. Augustine, where I arrived 



184 



MEMOIR. 



day before yesterday. William G. and I em- 
barked with our two ponies and baggage on 
board the little steamer, St. Matthews, at four 
o'clock Saturday afternoon, and steamed away 
down the Savannah and up the numerous cuts 
and passages, till evening, when Ave anchored 
to wait for the tide. Cards and chess-boards 
were then brought out, and I was very glad to 
find a gentleman who played a good game of 
chess. He, also, I. believe, was as much, or 
almost as much, pleased, to find some one who 
could beat him. So I was fully employed for 
the evening. That night the boat was busy 
making her way through these narrow cuts. 
They have a new kind of navigation here. In- 
stead of going by compass and observation, they 
go by feeling ; and, when they run on one flat, 
back off, and find a softer one ; which is more 
experimental than rapid. At four, Sunday after- 
noon, we stopped at St. Mary's; a small, stag- 
nating city, of five hundred inhabitants, black 
and white. There we remained till the next 
morning, detained by tide and fogs. We then 
went outside, to the St. John's, a distance of 
eighteen miles or so. My chess friend was to 
leave at Jacksonville, twenty-five miles up the 
river, so we made the most of our time ; and, I 



MEMOIR. 185 

believe, I satisfied him before he got there, as 
he didn't get even one game on to me. The 
St. John's is a glorious river, broad and blue, 
and skirted with woods. One realizes the great- 
ness of nature's works much more also, when 
they are off at the end of the world, and where 
there is nothing to remind him of man. To- 
wards evening we entered Black Creek, and 
went up it eighteen miles to land the mail. It 
was the most perfect sail I ever had. The 
Creek was scarcely twice the width of the 
steamboat, three or four fathoms deep, of dark, 
sluggish water. Large trees grew down and 
into its margin, shadowing it entirely. They 
were covered with the pendent moss, which 
grows here so plentifully; and were as pic- 
turesque, and much more magnificent than 
those around our old swamps and wild duck- 
pond at Naushon. Indeed, it seemed to me 
more like a continuation of such ponds still 
more wild than anything else I could think of. 
You can imagine the effect of driving a steam- 
boat through it, dashing aside the quiet waters, 
and scaring up the herons and cranes from its 
sides, and that just at the edge of the evening 
also. We arrived at Picolata at twelve that 
night — put our baggage in the stage for St. 



186 MEMOIR. 

Augustine, and took up cur quarters at Mrs. 
Smith's hotel fox the night, where we were plen- 
tifully supplied with cockroaches, &c. — re- 
ceived a breakfast which was rather worse than 
any I ever had in any of my travels so far, 
our first breakfast at Villa Franca included. 
Enough was on the table, but all was worse 
than bad. We paid our bill, and had our 
horses brought out as soon as possible. The 
ride to St. Augustine was eighteen miles. The 
day was the hottest I have felt so far. At first 
it was very delightful: the air was mild, the 
pine barrens were new to me. and the riding 
fine fun. As we approached the half-way 
house it grew hot, and towards the close of our 
journey it grew tiresome also. We arrived here 
about two ; the thermometer was that day 83° 
in the shade, and the next day 30° early in the 
morning, which shows that St. Augustine is not 
without its variations of temperature. This 
place is old, with narrow streets and stuccoed 
houses, and much like Ponta del Gad a on a 
small scale. The streets, however, are not paved 
and are very tolerable for walking. I am pretty 
well situated here in all important respects. My 
room is a good one, with a fire-place, which 
I am making use of at present. My furniture 



MEMOIR. 187 

is rather limited, but the bed is comfortable, 
and if the wash-stand is dirty, the water is 
clean enough. Our table is such that, if so dis- 
posed, we can find enough to eat that is good 
and wholesome ; and, if otherwise disposed, 
there is plenty to find fault with, which is an 
excellent plan, I think, and suits whatever dis- 
position one happens to be in. For myself, I 
am about the same as I have been since last 
October. I have no pain in the chest, and little 
or no cold. I sleep well when not disturbed by 
dogs or cats, which seem to abound in this neigh- 
borhood — good appetite, when our table is not 
too bad, and find myself very tolerably strong 
in the riding line. My pony could scarcely be 
improved ; he is very easy, well made, well- 
disposed and handsome. I am fast approxi- 
mating to twenty miles a day, as I experience 
no inconvenience from the eighteen yesterday. 
In fact, my dear father, I expect to return home 
improved, — stronger, if not radically better, 
and have no doubt that I shall spend a pleasant 
winter besides. 

Your most affectionate son, 

Robert Swain. 



188 



TO MRS. FORBES. 

St. Augustine, Jan. 27, 18-14. 



MY DEAR COUSIN SARAH, 



. . . I am now quite comfortably situated 
at a public house here, and, what is of more 
consequence, am improving, I think, from the 
effects of exercise and a milder climate ; though, 
as for the latter, I cannot say much at present, 
the thermometer being at 23° early this morn- 
ing, and not much higher at this time. The 
mild days, however, are very delightful, just 
the right temperature for enjoyment and exer- 
cise. 

You speak of being sorry that I came. I as- 
sure you, my dear cousin, that I was very sorry 
to do so, but it was a matter of life and death 
with me; and, so long as there was a reasona- 
ble chance of benefit, the comforts of home and 
the society of friends were minor considerations. 
Indeed I consider this winter decisive with me. 
If I improve sufficiently here, I shall expect to 
be absent from home several winters more, and 
endeavor to obtain something like established 
health. If not, I shall be content to remain 
among home comforts and friends, so long as 
it may be permitted me to be with you. 

Your pleasant cottage is often before me, and 



MEMOIR. 189 

I want no clairvoyance to show me the parlors, 
the bright fire, my favorite trouting scene over 
the table, the children tumbling about the room, 
(every one's pleasure and every one's plague,) 
and especially aunty Emma's. Why, I almost 
think I am with you now. 

And I am not without my pleasures also. I 
have found the finest pony in the Union ; my 
first experiment in horse-flesh, tell John : and 
tell him also, that, in making my selection, he 
was my chief assistance ; for, if I could find 
an animal anything unlike what he has in his 
stable, I knew it must be a good one. I ride 
every day from ten to twenty miles, and find it 
does me good. . . . 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

St. Augustine, Jan. 29, 1844. 

I know that, now and then, you like to have 
a letter directed to yourself, in u propria per- 
sona" my dear mother; and, though I have 
written four long letters by this mail already, I 
cannot let it go without writing home. The 
mail leaves here once a week, and it is now a 
week since I wrote you. I hardly know how 
the time has passed, but it has passed pleas- 



190 MEMOIR. 

antly, and I have been improving. The ride 
to Picolata is my only excursion, and it is a very 
pleasant one on horseback, but by no means so 
in any other way. There is quite a pleasant 
frame house there, neither ceiled nor clap- 
boarded ; only one thickness of boards, through 
the cracks of which, one may study astronomy 
at pleasure. There is, however, always a 
blazing fire of pitch-pine knots, which makes 
the room very cheerful, and warms those imme- 
diately around it. The landlord is quite an 
entertaining old man, has travelled all over 
Florida, and has written a book upon it. In 
warm weather I could spend a few days very 
pleasantly there, but to-day was too cold. The 
thermometer has been below the freezing point 
for several mornings now, and to-day there is as 
keen an air as we could have in October, at the 
commencement of a north-wester. 

I am glad to hear from father that you are so 
contented, and feel so easy about me, my dear 
mother, that is to say, you are not anxious con- 
cerning me ; and I am still more happy to be 
able to give you good accounts of myself. I 
can safely say that you need be under no ap- 
prehensions for me this winter. I may not be 
essentially better, but I am better than when I 



MEMOIR. 191 

left home. The weather is not just what I 
want at present, but I hope it will be warmer 
soon j and I have given up expecting to find 
things just as I want them now. 

Perhaps, my dear mother, you have often 
wished to be with me, and I also have often 
wished to be with you. But I have rejoiced 
again and again, that you did not come with 
me. I do not see anything that you could 
have done here ; any amusements, or em- 
ployments, or variety, that you could have 
had. There is nothing like the tropics here ; 
no fruit, no trees, no flowers. There is no 
beauty to entice you out of doors, and no com- 
forts to keep you in. I get along very pleas- 
antly now, and can make it last some time 
longer ; and if I am only improving, that is 
sufficient in itself. . . . 



TO HIS FATHER. 

my dear father, St. Augustine, Feb. 4, 1344. 

It is fortunate the mail leaves here only 
once a week, for if it went oftener, I should 
not write so often. I should wait day by day 
for something more to happen. But now I 
cannot let mail-day go by without writing. 



192 MEMOIR. 

Hearing from me must be a great pleasure to 
you. and when I think of that, I am ready to 
write every day almost, and certainly once a 
week : and it is a pleasure to me also, for it 
turns my thoughts home ; and thinking of you 
is next to seeing you. 

Now there is one matter, I wish to talk to 
you about. I know that when you hear the 

G s are not coming here, your first thought 

will be, that I shall be left here alone, and in a 
very unpleasant situation. And your next one 
will be to come on yourself at once and join 
me. It is a difficult thing for me to advise 
you not to come, and to give my reasons for it, 
for you will apply those reasons to me, and be 
all the more anxious to come on my account. 
But so it is ; I should be very glad to have you 
with me, and very sorry to have you here. In 
thinking over what the town affords, I cannot 
find a single employment or amusement for 
you. There are no horses that you could ride ; 
there are no vehicles that you could ride in. 
There is no fruit of any description. The bil- 
liard table is half a mile off; so that I have 
been there but twice. There is no scenery of 
any description this side of Picolata ; there is 
no vacant room in this house, and will not be a 



MEMOIR. 193 

decent one for some time. All the expeditions 
about here must be made on horseback, and all 
the pleasure is in riding, so that I can see but 
little for you ; and I should be very, very 
sorry, to have you here on my account; and 
particularly so as I am doing well, and getting 
along with things well besides. 



TO HIS FATHER. 

St. Augustine, Feb. 18, 1844. 

Your letters are a great pleasure to me, my 
dear father, and I look forward to mail-day 
with some anxiety. Thanks to your kindness 
in writing so regularly, I have never been dis- 
appointed yet. I think it is well for a person 
to be away from his friends once, to learn how 
to value them, and how much he loves them. 
Travelling enlarges the views and affections 
also, or consolidates them. A man must go a 
great way to find the kindness he gets, as a 
matter of course, at home. And yet I have in- 
variably found people kind and obliging, and 
made many friends and pleasant acquaintances. 
It's a good lesson to have to depend upon 
whomsoever you may meet for society. On0 
learns to overlook what is disagreeable, to find 



194 MEMOIR. 

out what is good in every one, (there is always 
something,) and be glad to get that. 

The Florida climate is not exactly what I 
want ; that is to say, the St. Augustine weather 
has not been quite warm or settled enough, so 
far. But I think, now the spring has opened, 
it will be better, and when the weather is fine, 
it is perfect. I am satisfied that twenty miles 
in the interior is far preferable to Augustine. 
There is not that chilliness in the atmosphere, 
which the sea-breeze often brings in here. I 
have taken up my permanent quarters in Pico- 
lata now, and shall only ride over here now and 
then for a visit, or to get my letters. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

my dear mother, Picolata, Feb. 27, 1844. 

I am writing you now from the Picolata 
piazza. The weather is so warm and delight- 
ful, that I have moved a table out, and find it 
much pleasanter than in the house. This Pi- 
colata seems to be my principal place of resi- 
dence at present, and I will give you a little 
description of it. Two houses, two stables, and 
two sheds constitute the town, which is situated 
on the east bank of the St. Johns river. In 






MEMOIR. 195 

front of Col. Williams's house, where I stay, 
and on the edge of the river, are half a dozen 
magnificent live oaks, drooping down with grey- 
moss, which half covers them. The moss is 
curly in itself, but hangs in long straight lines, 
like ours, only much larger and longer. These 
trees are my chief delight, together with the 
river, and I admire them more than any foliage 
I ever saw. The river is the most beautiful 
object. It is a mile wide here, and is a fine 
sheet of water, and when calm a very beautiful 
one. These two natural beauties cover a mul- 
titude of sins, that is to say, compensate for 
many inconveniences. The house is only one 
thickness of boards, and open in every crack 
and corner. But a pine-knot fire keeps us 
warm in cool weather, and most of the time it 
is unnecessary. I have plenty of milk, tolera- 
ble bread and butter, and excellent venison and 
wild turkey occasionally. There is some shoot- 
ing and fishing near about; but the reason I 
like the place is, that it is in the country. The 
air seems clearer and better. One can enjoy 
pleasant weather more than in town, and also 
one can do as he pleases. ... I assure 
you, my dear mother, I shall be right glad to 
get home once more, and to see you all again. 



196 



M E M I R . 



By the time I leave Florida, I shall have had 
enough of this vagrant life, and be ready for 
civilized society again. But it ; s my plan to go 
for the whole when you are in for any ; and I 
intend to be an undisputed loafer while I am 
one. . . . 

I am looking forward to next summer with 
much pleasure. There are many pleasant 
places in the world, and it is well enough to 
see some of them for variety ; but go the world 
over, and I do not believe there is another Nau- 
shon. And there is much enjoyment and much 
pleasure to be found also ; but, in my experi- 
ence, there is nothing that will compare with 
the society of one's friends, and nothing can be 
thoroughly enjoyed without it. I find myself 
continually putting things aside, as it were, for 
you at home, and thinking of you whenever I 
see anything beautiful. 



TO HIS FATHER. 

my dear father, Picolata, Feb. 29, 1844. 

When I receive your long, closely-written 
letters every week, so regularly, I feel quite 
ashamed of my hurried scrawls ; and now I 
am determined to begin before the approach of 



MEMOIR. 197 

mail-day, and write you a quiet, sober letter, 
and tell you everything I can think of, that can 
in any way interest you. I shall begin with 
the climate and weather here, which concerns 
me more than anything else. It is as nearly 
perfect as can be. For three weeks we had a 
succession of delightful days without cessa- 
tion. The atmosphere is smoky, quite warm 
enough at noon, though a little cool morning and 
evening. It is just the weather for exercise; 
very like our Indian summer. Often there 
will not be a breath of wind all day; and the 
wind scarcely ever blows hard. The direction 
has been north and north-west, through the 
whole month. I am convinced the climate is 
much better a few miles in the interior than at 
Augustine. There, the sea-breeze comes in, 
morning and evening, and is always cool, often 
chilly. While here at Picolata, if it comes at 
all, it must pass over twenty miles of pine 
woods or barrens, as they are called, and be- 
comes much softened. It is on that account, 
and from love of the country, that I prefer 
staying here. These pine barrens are very 
pleasant also. When there is no expedition or 
amusement under way in the morning, I get on 
the Count, and ride out into the woods, six or 



198 MEMOIR. 

eight miles. Naushon has given me such a 
love of the woods, that I want no better com- 
pany; and with 

" The waving of the forest boughs 
As the wind moves overhead," 

and a song now and then, to keep my spirits up 
or down, as occasion requires, I pass the time 
very happily, and usefully also, in one respect, 
and that the all-important one with me, at 
present. I think I am gradually improving, or 
consolidating, perhaps. You need give me no 
cautions about care, for I am as careful as is 
consistent with humanity. I have not taken 
any cold these three weeks, or since this weather 
commenced, and none worth mentioning since I 
came here. I have therefore no cough ; but 
the raising continues the same. I am improv- 
ing in strength, and as regards breathing, which 
is not so frequently hurried, particularly at night. 
Any improvement, however, is very gradual ; 
and I do not expect it to be otherwise. 

How fast the months are gliding by ! Spring 
is almost here, or quite here. I have had ripe 
strawberries picked from the garden. A few 
days since, a flock of wild geese passed over 
on their way to you ; and the robins are col- 
lecting en masse^ to carry to you the first tidings 



MEMOIR. 199 

of spring. I find many old friends of mine 
here — feathered friends. A fish-hawk haunts 
a dead tree on the banks of the river, who 
must remember me at Naushon, he takes such 
good care to avoid me here. The kingfishers, 
also, are plying as brisk a trade on the St. 
Johns, as they ever did in Hadley's Harbor. I 
like to watch them, and hear their watchman's 
rattle, as they light upon the old trees, along the 
river's side. It is a very great pleasure to me 
to be near the water, and such a fine sheet of 
water too. It is a mile wide here, and when 
calm, is very beautiful. I believe I can receive 
positive delight and happiness from merely 
looking at it. I am glad your boat speculation 
promises so well. It is quite a pleasure for me 
to look forward to having good sail-boats next 
summer. ... I am looking forward to next 
summer with great pleasure. I know I shall 
enjoy being with you, and the society of friends, 
more than I ever have before. I have learned, 
by being absent, how to appreciate what I have 
left ; and I feel that it is necessary for me to 
enjoy my friends, and everything else, in fact, 
while I may. You must excuse this letter's be- 
ing so wholly and entirely egotistical ; but I see 
no one else to write about, and there is little 



200 



MEMOIR. 



here for description — no crater-lakes and jack- 
rides. . . . 



TO MISS A. M. D. 

my dear friend annie, Picolata, March 5, 1844. 

. . . Perhaps I may be somewhat diffident, 
but if so naturally, dear A., I have no wish to be 
so with you. I think with you, that friendship, 
to be worthy of the name, must be the free in- 
terchange of thoughts for mutual benefit. There 
are some subjects, however, those which you 
mentioned in your letter, very difficult to talk 
about, and most difficult to think of clearly. 
Life is a very difficult problem to solve. We 
see it in our friends, and mark its changes and 
events to its close, till it is finished here, and 
then we can speculate upon it, and think we 
have seen a human life. But it is not so. For 
the real life is the effect of what we see, of all 
these " accidents " upon the spirit which is 
gone. Thus it appears to me, we are made in- 
dependent of the many circumstances which 
seem to control us. We cannot alter, and we 
must submit to them, but we can control their 
effects upon our minds ; and thus live, within 
ourselves, the life we choose, independent of all 



MEMOIR. 201 

things. For myself, I feel that I must look 
upon active life almost as a spectator. There 
are many reasons why I can never be engaged 
in it. And all my boyish dreams of doing 
something or other wonderful in the world, some 
time or other, which every one has, I believe, 
have left me now. I can never have any plan 
of life, and expect to be scattered about over the 
world, so long as I may remain in it. And I 
know it is very uncertain how long that may 
be. One lesson, I believe, I have learned, that 
is to bear with tolerable philosophy whatever is 
unavoidable ; and there is one which I wish to 
learn — to extract all the enjoyment and happi- 
ness possible, as I go along. That is the true 
philosophy of life, I believe; and where one 
cannot devote himself to any object, he must 
take what chance throws in his way, and make 
the most of that. 

I don ; t know why I have written you all 
this. It must be your fault for provoking me 
to it by your letter. ... I am enjoying my 
stay here, and my out-door exercises very much ; 
but not half so much as I expect to enjoy Nau- 
shon and the society of friends next summer. 
This letter is rather a short one, but I will 



202 MEMOIR, 






make up for it in the next ; and till then, my 
dear A., 

Believe me your affectionate friend, 

Robert Swain. 



TO HIS PHYSICIAN AT NEW BEDFORD. 

Picolata, March 9, 1844. 

I am very sorry to be obliged to write an un- 
favorable account of myself at the time when 
it will be least expected. Last night, upon go- 
ing to bed, I had another attack of bleeding. 
It was entirely unexpected, as I had considered 
myself doing very well ; and, though I had had 
a slight cough upon going to bed for a few 
nights, I thought nothing of it. 

I write you, wishing you to see my father ; 
for I cannot write to him. I will send him, by 
the same mail, a letter through Washington, 
that he may hear from you first. 

I think I shall be able to prevent a recurrence 
of it at present, by care, and I will keep this 
letter open till the last minute. But it is con- 
clusive to my mind, that I cannot recover. I 
may prolong my life for some time yet by care, 
(and 1 hope to do so, for I have a good deal of 



MEMOIR. 203 

strength,) and to spend one summer more, at 
least, with my dear parents, God bless them ! 
I cannot think of them, and know not how I 
shall be able to write to them. I will write 
you the particulars, as you request in your let- 
ter ; and I hope you can give my father more 
encouragement than I feel myself from them. 
. . . Perhaps in this mild climate, and with 
so much warm weather before me, there may 
be one chance for me left yet. I do not allow 
myself to trust to it, but I wish my friends 
might ; and I will do all that I can do to avail 
myself of it. . . . 



TO HIS FATHER. 

my dearest father, Picolata, March 10, 1844. 

It is with great difficulty I can bring myself 
to write you now, for I cannot bear to think of 
the pain my letter will cause you. It is hard, 
very hard, to be the cause of affliction to those 
whom one loves best. But so it is; and all 
that is left for us is to do what we can to 
counterbalance it. 

I have been getting on so well, and have 
written such encouraging letters home, that I 



204 MEMOIR. 

fear you will be totally unprepared for any 
change, as I was myself. 

The night before last I had another attack of 
bleeding. It was caused by a cough, which 
had troubled me for a few nights, which seem- 
ed to proceed, as before, from difficulty in 
throwing off the mucus. It is a satisfaction to 
me, that this was not occasioned by any impru- 
dence. Several days ago, we had a high wind, 
and the atmosphere here was impregnated with 
fine sand, which got into the house, and settled 
upon everything. I thought it might be bad for 
me, and went into the woods as- soon as possi- 
ble. That night my cough commenced. I 
cannot think of the effect of this upon your 
fondest hopes; and I almost wish you loved 
me less, that you might not suffer so much. 

I always think it best to be prepared for 
anything, and to hope for the best ; and now I 
do not give it up without one more trial. I 
shall have a mild, soft atmosphere for a long 
time, and am as favorably situated as possible, 
for such a case. 

And should this trial be unsuccessful, and it 
be apparent that I can never recover, I shall 
still have one more last summer at Naushon, to 
spend with you, my dearest parents. Life is 



MEMOIR. 205 

not, in itself, so very valuable to me, and it will 
be chiefly for your sakes that I shall regret 
leaving it. Then, have we all that happy 
land to look forward to, " where the mourners 
cease to mourn, and the weary are at rest." 
And what matters a little time, whether we 
spend a few less, or a few more years here ? It 
is nothing. To that end we must come at last; 
and I almost think he is to be envied who is 
first to go. It is not like going to a strange 
country, either. The way may be dark and 
guideless, and we know not where it leads ; but 
we know that many of our best and dearest 
friends have gone before us, and that all must 
follow us. Why should we fear? But, my 
dear parents, I write not this despondingly. It 
is what may occur, and it is well to think of it. 
But it will not occur for some time yet, and it 
may not for a long time. I am getting over the 
effects of this attack, without difficulty. Yes- 
terday, the mucus which I raised, was disco- 
lored ; to T day it is not. I slept very tolerably, 
better than I expected. My pulse is right, and 
I am recovering from the depression. I will 
write up to the time the boat leaves. 

I suppose I must give up all thoughts of going 



206 MEMOIR. 

home with Mr. Fearing, even if it were practi- 
cable otherwise ; though I think it most proba- 
ble that, if nothing occurs to prevent it, in two 
weeks I shall be apparently as well as at any 
time. But I shall await at Savannah your di- 
rections, and shall be ready to join you any- 
where, as soon as the climate will allow of my 
going north. 

If you decide to come on soon, do not let this 
letter hurry you too much. There is no occa- 
sion for great haste. You will wish to return 
with me some time in June, and will have many 
things to be arranged for so long an absence. 

Monday, 11th. I slept very well last night, 
my dear father, and feel better and improving 
to-day. And I feel confident I shall have no 
return of the bleeding at present. I have de- 
cided to go to Savannah at once. I shall be 
with the Fearings there, and be sure of good 
accommodations and friends ; and there I shall 
await you also. I think you had both better 
come on, for I want to see you now all the time 
I can. I will write you at home by the next 
mail, then at New York, and will try to have a 
letter at Baltimore as you come on. 

I dread to send this, very, very much ; but it 



MEMOIR. 207 

must be done. God bless you, my dearest pa- 
rents. In life and in death I shall remain, 
Your affectionate son, 

Robert. 



TO THE SAME. 

On board the St. Matthews, Thursday, 14th. 

We shall arrive at Savannah in a few hours. 
I have got through with the passage very toler- 
ably. Mr. Hart and Mr. Merritt came on with 
me in the boat, and have been very kind in 
saving me from exposure and trouble. I shall 
stop at the Pulaski House again, and make my- 
self as comfortable and quiet as possible. As 
the mail leaves there every day, I shall write 
you once or twice at home, and then at New 
York, Baltimore and Charleston, if lean learn 
when you will be there. Your affectionate son. 



TO THE SAME. 

my dear father, Savannah, March 19th, 1844. 

I am glad to be able to give you a favorable 
account of myself for these few days past. 
Since I last wrote, I have been improving every 
day, and now I can really see but little differ- 



208 MEMOIR. 

ence in my condition, from what I was before 
this attack. I do not feel the same confidence 
in myself, or the same confidence in my re- 
covery. But I cannot see that I am at present 
perceptibly worse for it ; and I am surprised at 
it too. I know you will be anxious to learn 
exactly how I am, and I will give you a medical 
description .... From my general health 
continuing so good, I cannot help having a lit- 
tle hope yet. And I have great confidence in 
being able to spend a long time with you, my 
dearest father, even though I cannot recover. 

My chief sorrow has been for you ; and the 
hardest trial I have had, has been writing to 
you, and thinking of the pain my letter must 
give you. But though it may be unexpected 
at present, I know you have thought of these 
things before, and are not unprepared for what- 
ever may happen. 

You must take your own time for coming 
on here, and not be in any haste. 

The weather is fine ; I am out most of the 
time, and am very comfortably and pleasantly 
situated. 






CHAPTER VIII. 

Robert's homeward journey. 

Age 21. 

TO. J. H. MORISON. 

Savannah, April 7th, 1844. 

MY DEAR MR. MORISON, 

I know you will be anxious to hear from me 
now, since so much has happened, and so many 
unexpected changes have taken place. We lit- 
tle thought, when occupying this little parlor to- 
gether, that all our, that is, my family would 
be collected together here before my return. But 
so it is, and here we all are, and E. L. B. be- 
sides, scattered about the aforesaid little parlor, 
making quite a New Bedford party. 

If you have heard from my last letters, you are, 
no doubt, quite free from any immediate appre- 
hension Concerning my attack. And I am glad 
to be able to give you good accounts still, putting 
the matter at rest for the present. This writing 
home bad news is the hardest thing I ever had 
to do. I do not care so very much for myself. 
I think, Mr. Morison, that I have learned to 



210 MEMOIR. 

bear whatever may happen to me with tolera- 
ble philosophy. I have had a good deal of it to 
do, and I hope it has not been without its good 
effects. But it is very hard to be the cause of 
affliction to those one loves best, even through 
one's health, which is beyond our control. Still, 
there is nothing to do, but to give as well as re- 
ceive, all the happiness we can ; and that is all 
the plan of life I can have at present. Our 
plans for living, however, are by no means so 
simple, and I am sorry I have not time to give 
them to you, at length, descriptively. As soon 
as father arrived, and we had talked over mat- 
ters a little, we commenced thinking and plan- 
ning what would be the best course for me to 
pursue this summer, and soon decided, that 
riding was the best possible exercise, and what I 
must have. Mr. F. and Frank, as you know, in- 
tended making their homeward journey through 
the country. We have now decided to ac- 
company them. To-morrow morning, at nine, 
father and Mr. F. go to Charleston ; the for- 
mer to buy horses and a carriage for the jour- 
ney. At half past seven, mother and E. start 
in Mr. F.'s carriage for Augusta. Frank and 
myself accompany them on horseback. We 
shall arrive at Augusta in four days, when Mr. 



MEMOIR. 211 

F. and father will meet us there. We shall all 
remain there and at Aikin two or three weeks, 
when mother and E. will return home, and we, 
journeymen, start on our long expedition. I 
can only tell you now, that we go through the 
western part of this state, North and South 
Carolina, into the Shenandoah Valley, and 
through this up. We shall travel about thirty 
miles a day, stop whenever we find it conve- 
nient and pleasant, and stay as long as we 
please. We expect thus to see the finest parts 
of this great country, and to grow strong and 
well from the exercise. I have recovered en- 
tirely from the effects of my last attack, and 
appear to be as strong as at any time previous, 
and am anticipating much benefit from this ex- 
pedition. It involves many unpleasant things, 
however; among which, breaking up the Nau- 
shon summer is not the least. 

With love to Emily and my best wishes for 
her and your welfare, 

I remain ever affectionately yours, 

Robert Swain. 



from Robert's memorandum book. 
April 8th, left Savannah for Augusta, where 
we arrived on the 11th We started every morn- 



212 MEMOIR. 

ing at seven; stopped at twelve, and dined at 
some one of the farm-houses on the road, which 
we found clean, cool and pleasant, and the peo- 
ple very accommodating. After an hour or so 
of rest, we proceeded the remainder of our day's 
journey in the cool of the afternoon. We were 
wise in taking our own bread and some provi- 
sions, which might have been more without 
inconvenience. 

Friday, Saturday and Sunday, 12th, 13th and 
14th, spent at Augusta, seeing about horses, car- 
riages and things necessary to be got, and ad- 
miring the beauty of the town, which sur- 
passes any I have yet seen in the south for the 
width of its streets, and neatness of its houses. 
The hotel at which we stopped, (" the United 
States ") kept by Mr. Frazer, is an excellent 
one. There is also good ice-cream to be had a 
few doors off. 

Monday, April 15th. Left Augusta for Aiken, 
accompanying Mr. F. and carriage. Frank stop- 
ped to walk his mare down, lamed by a negro's 
carelessness. Father coming in the afternoon 
cars. Hot ride to Aiken — eighteen or twenty 
miles. Met an old " Cracker," who surpassed 
any Yankee in asking questions. Found mo- 
ther and Miss G. at Aiken — Edward gone to 
Charleston to get the horses and carriage. The 



MEMOIR. 213 

country from Augusta to Aiken is finer than any 
we have yet seen. After leaving Savannah, 
it is uniformly a level pine barren. Towards 
Augusta, it changes into a regular, rolling coun- 
try, and towards Aiken it becomes hilly and 
more varied. 

Wednesday, 17th April. Edward arrived 
from Charleston with a Rockaway carriage and 
pair of greys, both of which promise well. In 
honor of this purchase one nag is named Ned, 
and the other Baker. 

Friday, 19th. Edward, mother and Miss G. 
left us for home. We intended leaving also, 
but were prevented by an easterly storm. 

April weather at the South. From the 4th 
to the 19th of April there has been an unin- 
terrupted succession of fine days — clear and 
hot. Thermometer at Aiken 86° in the coolest 
place in the house, with the thinnest clothing it 
was difficult to keep cool. Now, the 19th, an 
easterly storm has commenced — damp, chilly, 
and disagreeable. Mrs. Swartz keeps a good 
house, and we are fortunate in being detained 
at such a place. Roast beef and steaks unex- 
ceptionable. 

Monday, 22d April. Left Aiken at quarter past 
six. Horses in good condition, and carriages 



MEMOIR. 

well stocked with every necessary and many 
superfluity. 

At twelve, stopped at Edgefield, and dined on 
our own provision. Yankee landlord from Con- 
necticut, with his northern wife, and northern 
stock throughout. Afternoon started for Dr. 
Nicholson's, seven miles on, and were intro- 
duced to the red clay roads. The Doctor 's a 
fine house, good supper, and pleasant place. 

Tuesday, 23d. Off at quarter past six, Frank 
starting an hour earlier on his lame horse. Road 
horrible beyond description — clayey, muddy, 
full of holes and ruts, and very rough. One 
o'clock, stopped at Clagon's, twenty-six miles. 
Tired and glad to stop. 

Wednesday, 24th. Off at quarter past six. 
Road better, country beautiful. Crossed the 
Saludee river ; stopped at noon, finding it hot, 
and ate our lunch-dinner. Then on to McCul- 
lough's, and pulled up for the night, thirty 
miles. McCullough, an Irishman — thirty years 
in the country, with children and plantations 
around him in abundance. 

Thursday, 25th of April. Left at quarter 
past six again. Arrived at Greenville at quar- 
ter past eleven — twenty-four and half miles. 
Road capital. Found an extensive and excel- 



MEMOIR. 215 

lent house at Greenville, and ice and ice-cream. 
We are fortunate in being before the travelling 
season, and therefore find good accommoda- 
tions. In this large house we are the only 
company. 

Sunday, 28th of April. Left Greenville for 
Dr. Lynch's — ten miles. Horses recovered and 
refreshed. Dr. L.'s is a fine house, pleasantly 
situated in the woods, and well kept. We are 
now approaching the mountains, and cooler 
weather. There has been no rain since we 
left Aiken, and hot weather. Thermometer over 
80°. This evening a fine shower and hail. 

Monday, 29th of April. An easterly wind 
and cloudy day prevented our leaving Lynch's. 
It is a pleasant place, however, and we are not 
unwilling to stop. Greatly alarmed about a 
party with ladies, who are expected here to- 
night from Charleston. Two carriages, with 
four horses each, and a baggage-wagon. 

Tuesday, 30th of April. Left Lynch's at 
seven. . To Sumney's, one mile this side of Flat 
Rock — twenty-five miles. The most delight- 
ful ride we have yet had — hills and woods 
and running brooks — beauty in everything. 
Weather good again and cool — vegetation 
three weeks behind Aiken — trees just out in 
leaf, and flowers in profusion. 



216 MEMOIR. 

Wednesday, May-day. After hesitating about 
the weather, concluded to go on, and at seven 
o'clock were on our way, passing the beauties 
of Flat Rock with only a cursory view. The 
weather, though cloudy, proved excellent for 
travelling. Road capital. Scenery mountain- 
ous and beautiful. Stopped at Ashville, twen- 
ty-six miles from Flat Rock. 

Thursday, 2d of May. Left at seven o'clock 
— soon struck the French Broad river, and con- 
tinued along its banks ; the road running along 
by it — a very pretty ride. Stopped twelve 
miles on, at Alexandria. Tried the fishing un- 
successfully. Road good, but dusty. 

Friday, May 3d. Started early, and came on 
twenty-six miles to the Warm Springs, on the 
French Broad. Ride along the bank of the 
river very fine, but none of us enjoyed it. Mr. 
F. and Frank were both sick, and rode in their 
carriage; and I had a slight return of bleeding, 
and rode in our carriage. 

Saturday, May 4th. Had an attack of bleed- 
ing again last night ; a serious one. Have been 
in bed to-day, feeling badly for myself, and 
more so for my dear father, who is very much 
affected. God grant that I may be better soon. 
I cannot bear to see him so distressed. 




MEMOIR. 217 

Our position is very discouraging, if I do not 
recover soon. We are too far on our way to 
return, and a journey before us which requires 
much strength and time ere we can get to any 
approachable place. 

May 5th. Improved a little, and moved over 
to a house on the opposite side of the river, 
which is much more comfortable. It is very 
large — two hundred and thirty feet front — 
and accommodates two hundred people, who 
resort thither from the low countries in July. 

We could not have a more delightful place to 
stop at. Fine rooms, a table to ourselves, and 
good attendance. 

Father has been unwell for some time, and 
to-day seems worse. 



MY DEAR MOTHER, 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

Warm Springs, (N. C.) May, 1844. 



We are now, thus far, on our journey ; as 
father has told you, and with very favorable 
circumstances. The weather has been delight- 
ful, though sometimes rather too warm. The 
houses have been invariably good, and the rides 
pleasant, and some of them very beautiful. I 



218 MEMOIR. 

have often wished you could be with us to 
enjoy them also, and particularly in crossing 
the mountains a few days since. The scenery 
was beautiful ; but what I thought would de- 
light you was, the profusion of wild flowers, 
which seemed to fill the woods in every direc- 
tion. Several varieties of honeysuckle, (azalea, 
I think you called it,) of most gorgeous colors : 
a bright scarlet flower that grows in the rocks, 
and many more equally beautiful, which, if I 
was a botanist, I might describe to you. Since 
we left Aiken, we have found much greater va- 
riety, and particularly since we came to the 
hilly and mountainous regions. Some part of 
the way you could have been with us, as well 
as not; but then again you would have found 
other parts very tiresome. We had, for one or 
two days, a terribly rough, clayey road, which 
I avoided by riding on horseback most of the 
time, but which you would have found very 
fatiguing in the carriage ; and, as to our accom- 
modations, Ave are sometimes pushed for room, 
and expect to be still more so. We generally 
fill up a house pretty effectually, and give our 
sympathy, if not our room, to those who un- 
fortunately come after us. I have enjoyed the 
journey, so far, and am in hopes it will prove 



MEMOIR. 219 

beneficial to me. At all events, it was the best 
thing we could think of for me, and, as father 
says, the result is not in our hands. Even 
now, my dear mother, I am looking forward to 
Naushon, and to meeting you again ; for neither 
Flat Rock, nor the French Broad, nor anything 
else we have yet seen, will compare with our 
home. 

Yours ever. Robert S. 



FROM HIS MEMORANDUM BOOK. 

May 6th. I am a little better, recovering, 
and expect to go on in a few days, though 
slowly. Our party is broken up. Mr. F. and 
Frank go to-morrow, Mr. F. being unwilling to 
wait longer. Father and self follow in a few 
days. Father is better to-day, and apprehends 
no more difficulty. 

Tuesday, May 7th. Mr. F. and Frank left 
this morning. Afternoon I had a slight return 
of raising; and, alarmed at the possibility of 
my growing worse, and having to remain here 
some time sick, and without friends, we con- 
cluded, most reluctantly, to send on for Frank 
to return. William, our driver, was accordingly 



220 MEMOIR. 

despatched on the Count for Henderson's, thirty- 
two miles, with a letter. 

Wednesday, May 8th. At one o'clock, to- 
day, Frank and William appeared. 

Thursday, 9th. Improving slowly. Last 
night a man rode off the bridge here on horse- 
back. The bridge is twenty feet high, and the 
stream rapid. The horse was blind, the man 
was drunk, and yet they got to the shore unin- 
jured. A strong argument against the temper- 
ance cause ; for if the man had been sober, he 
would probably have been killed. 



FROM A LETTER TO HIS MOTHER. 

my dear mother. Warm Springs, May 9. 

It is father's wish that I should add a post- 
script, and I do so, though I can but repeat 
what he has already told you. We com- 
menced this journey, as 3^011 know, after decid- 
ing that it seemed to offer the best, and per- 
haps the only chance of my improvement — 
certainly the best that 1 could think of — and I 
still remain of the same opinion. I cannot but 
think that the exercise of a journey like ours, 
taken with moderation and care, in a fine cli- 



MEMOIR. 221 

mate and through a pleasant country, is the 
best thing I can do. And even if I am still to 
be subject to these attacks, which seems to have 
been the case ever since I left home, I can 
think of no other course, which would offer a 
better chance of my being able to throw them 
off, than our present one ; so long as there is 
hope of my being able to do so at all. 

I do not think that you need be at all anxious 
about me at present. I have always recovered 
from these attacks at once and without diffi- 
culty, and have been as well, apparently, in a 
week, as I w T as before ; and that is the case 
now. The raising has entirely ceased, and I 
know that, unless something unusual occurs, I 
shall be fully able to go on by next Monday. 
There is no hurry, however, and we are deter- 
mined to be safe. And this is such a delightful 
place also, that I shall be sorry to leave it. I 
know this will cause you some anxiety, my 
dear mother ; but you must know, and must 
wish to know, all that happens to us, and I 
think you will take the same view that I do of 
our affairs ; and I know that is the best one. 

Your most affectionate son, 

Robert. 



222 MEMOIR. 

FROM HIS MEMORANDUM BOOK. 

Friday, 10th. Still improving slowly. 

Saturday, 11th. Rode on the Count. 

Sunday, 12th. Rode in the carriage, and 
ready to go to-morrow. 

Monday, 13th. A fine, cool morning and 
easterly wind, which is very different from our 
easterly wind the other side of the mountains. 
Left Warm Springs at six, and came on twelve 
miles to Hor ton's, crossing the mountains ; leav- 
ing the French Broad, and entering Tennessee. 
Frank and William explored a cave, and got 
lost. 

Tuesday, 14th. Started at six, and came on, 
through Greenville, nineteen miles, to Hender- 
son's, six miles further. Forded river. 

Water level with the carriage body ; stony 
bottom and strong current. Henderson's is a 
good house. 

Wednesday, 15th. Left at half past five, and 
came twenty-six miles. Road horribly rough ; 
the worst we have had since we left South Caro- 
lina. It required all our driver's skill to avoid 
the rocks and gullies, and more ; for once we 
stuck into a rut, which almost stopped us effect- 
ually. The strength of our carriage alone 



MEMOIR. 223 

saved us. This is a very good stone house, and 
cool. The people in it are miserably off. They 
have no slaves, and do nothing themselves ; 
therefore we had nothing to eat and could get 
nothing done. If we had not brought some 
bread from Henderson's, and had a tongue, we 
should have starved on bad eggs and bacon. 
The roads here are so bad in the spring, that 
wagons have been forced to return to the same 
house from which they started, for six succes- 
sive days. Thev often heap the mud before 
their axletrees, and are obliged to shovel it off 
like snow. 

Thursday, 16th May. Came through Blount- 
ville, (Tenn.) on to Mr. King's, twenty-one miles 
in Virginia. Road very bad, and we were seven 
hours going twenty-one miles. Mr. King's is 
not a road house, but we determined to stop 
there, if possible, and, aided by the respecta- 
bility of our appearance, succeeded. He is a 
minister, and has the best farm in the country. 
His house is the best we have yet seen. On the 
top of a hill, and surrounded by trees, it is cool, 
commands a fine view of the farm and moun- 
tains, and has every breeze that blows. Mr. 
King was away. His daughters (very pretty 
girls too,) were here, and we had strawberries 



224 MEMOIR. 



and cream for dinner. We are in the region of 
Virginia riflemen now. There is a man in 
Blount ville who bet one hundred dollars that 
he could shoot a quart of rifle bullets into an 
inch auger-hole at one hundred yards, without 
roughing up the edges. He was taken up, and 
shot twenty or thirty balls into the hole without 
touching the sides, and his opponent gave it up. 

Friday, 17th. Came to Abington, fifteen 
miles. Road very tolerable. Stopped at Trig's, 
a good brick house and fine rooms. Abington is 
quite a place, pleasantly situated in a valley, 
with a fine country around. Mr. Preston, who 
passed us on the road, resides here, and has a 
splendid house and grounds. Mr. Gibson, whom 
I met at Augustine and Picolata, lived here 
also. He has got as far as Augusta on his re- 
turn, and will die there. His brother passed us 
on his way to him. 

Saturday, 18th. Left Abington as early as 
we could, but father here found it difficult to 
hurry matters. The lady of the house said, 
she "wouldn't be hurried; she had seen trav- 
ellers before, and as big ones as he, and she 
warn't to be hurried by 'urn." Came on twenty- 
three miles to Six mile Ford. Road very tole- 
rable; but if we were earlier, or if the season 



. 



MEMOIR. 225 

was not unusually advanced, full three weeks 
earlier than common, these roads would be im- 
passable. They are clayey and rocky; and 
even now we frequently find places where the 
mud is deep enough for our carriage, with hor- 
rible holes and ruts also. The house here is an 
excellent one, built of brick, large and cool. We 
are evidently in a better country. The farms are 
well cultivated. There is more land under im- 
provement, and the log hovels are disappearing. 
There are extensive salt springs near this place, 
one of which belongs to the Preston family. 

Sunday, 19th. Remained at the Ford. Wind 
easterly, and fire comfortable morning and even- 
ing. 



TO J. H. MORISON. 

Twenty miles from Abington, (Va.) May 19, 1844. 

MY DEAR MR. MORISON, 

I am writing you from the " ultima thule" of 
Virginia.' We have passed through South and 
North Carolina ; crossed the Blue Ridge and a 
spur of the Alleghanies ; followed the course of 
the French Broad river, into Tennessee; and, 
having crossed the corner of that state, are now 
in Virginia. 

p 



226 MEMOIR. 

The country through which we have passe 
has been uniformly fine, and we have been verj 
fortunate in weather and accommodations. We 
have not been detained by rain one day since 
we left Aiken. The season is remarkably for- 
ward, a month more advanced than last year 
at this time ; and that is of the greatest impor- 
tance to us on account of the roads. They are 
clayey and are scarcely settled, even now ; and 
if we were earlier, or if the season was later, 
they would be almost impassable. At the Warm 
Springs, in North Carolina, we were detained 
by my sickness. It was a beautiful place, on 
the banks of the French Broad, and surrounded 
with mountains. The house also was excel- 
lent. There was no place this side of Savan- 
nah where we could have been so comfortable. 

We are making the journey, as we intended, 
by easy stages, seldom more than twenty-five 
miles a day. We start at five, and ride from 
five to seven hours. The houses on the road 
are excellent, and sufficiently numerous. We 
are always able to stop at a good one without 
overdoing. The only drawback we find is in 
the roads, and they are so much better than we 
have any reason to expect, that we ought to be 
satisfied and thankful it is no worse ; and in a 



MEMOIR. 



227 



short time, also, we meet the turnpike, which is 
good enough. 

I am doing very well now ; but whether it 
will be of any permanent benefit to me or not, 
I cannot yet tell. If these attacks of bleeding 
continue, I cannot recover; and it will only be 
left for me to spend the remainder of my life 
as pleasantly as I can at home, and in the so- 
ciety of friends. This leaving all that is so 
beautiful and so dear to us, is hard to think of, 
Mr. Morison, and sometimes I can hardly bear 
to think of it ; but, as I have had many difficult 
things to bear, I hope to be reconciled even to 
this. And the knowledge that there is no 
human remedy, and that what is the will of 
God is for the best, is a great assistance. 

My best love to Emily, and believe me, 
Very truly yours, 

Robert Swain. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

Red Sulphur Springs, May 26, 1844. 



MY DEAR MOTHER, 

I have just looked over a long letter of father's 
to you, which seems to comprise almost every- 
thing that can be said. As he has said less 



228 MEMOIR. 

about these Springs and their " surroundings " 
than they deserve, I will begin with them, and 
trust to luck to lead me into some path not 
quite trodden smooth by his greatness. 

This is a very picturesque place. It is a 
steep ravine, like the letter V,with a small bit 
of level ground at the bottom. This is laid 
out as a grass plot, with trees and paths ; and 
surrounding it, at the foot of the hills, are the 
houses, with their long ranges of white pillars 
and piazzas. The spring is near the centre of 
the valley. It is covered with a fine dome, and 
supported by pillars. The water is perfectly 
clear, and flows out constantly from a rock. It 
is enclosed in a marble basin, which shows its 
transparency to advantage. Altogether, it is a 
perfect nook of a place, entirely shut in. The 
water is impregnated with sulphur to such a 
degree, that I can with difficulty get down half 
a tumbler at a time ; and, being obliged to take 
five or six tumblers a day, you can see how 
pleasantly my time must be occupied. I am 
determined to give these Springs a fair trial. 
We hear them praised in cases similar to mine, 
and if I can derive any benefit from them, I 
intend to do so. . . Naushon, however, is a 
chain around our necks, not easy to be shaken 






MEMOIR. 229 

off, and every succeeding week, after the first of 
June, will draw it one link tighter. 

We have scarcely seen a church in our whole 
journey. In New England, every little collec- 
tion of houses, though hardly enough for a 
village, has its white church and spire, and 
schoolhouse. But it is not so in this country. 
A village church or a village schoolhouse is 
seldom seen. Benches placed out under the 
trees, are the substitute for the one, and the 
nearest approach to the other is the colleges, 
with high-sounding titles and few students, 
which we meet with, now and then, in the 
larger towns. Common country schools have 
not found their way here yet. The villages 
have not the clean, tidy, flourishing appearance 
that ours have. They all have a stagnating 
look. The lack of paint, broken windows, and 
decaying wood-work, dirty streets, &c. &c, 
show that the march of improvement is a 
"dead march." One need only travel through 
the southern states, to come home satisfied with 
New England, and to thank his stars that his 
lot was cast among its rocks and sands. 

Your affectionate son, Robert. 



230 MEMOIR. 



EXTRACT FROM A LETTER WRITTEN BY HIS FATHER. 

Red Sulphur, Friday, May 31. 

At eleven o'clock, to-day, Robert was at- 
tacked with a more violent hemorrhage than 
any preceding one. It lasted an hour. He — 
but I can hardly go on — he had no expecta- 
tion of surviving it, and, in the intervals of 
coughing up blood, talked to me in a strain that 
almost broke my heart : and yet it was the 
greatest possible comfort to hear him. If there 
ever was an angel boy, he is one ; and I had 
rather have been the father of such a son dead, 
with all the treasures of memory he leaves 
behind him, than of the most distinguished for 
talent or station. I have long known he was 
destined to an early grave ; and no transient 
changes have ever deceived me into the indulg- 
ence of hope for long life. But it will be hard 
to part with so much promise, and bury with 
him all our hopes in this world. I have sketched 
down what he said as well as I could remember 
it at such a time. He was lying in my arms 
for an hour and I thank God for the privilege. 
After that time the hemorrhage abated, and soon 
ceased. We had a good physician on the spot. 
He administered some remedy, and by one 



MEMOIR. 231 

o'clock Robert slept. Since then he has felt 
very easy and comfortable, but, of course, weak. 
If I can only get him home without another 
attack, it is all I hope for. Their coming in 
such quick succession, notwithstanding all our 
care, makes me fear not being able to do that. 
He cannot leave here short of a fortnight, or 
ten days certainly, and we must travel very 
slowly. The distance to Winchester is two 
hundred and twenty miles ; it will take us two 
weeks to get there. I copy what he has just 
written on a slate. 

" I have been in the valley of the shadow of 
death. I twice lost all consciousness, save that 
I felt I was dying; and it was indescribably 
pleasant. I saw nothing here. A happy un- 
consciousness of suffering came over me, and I 
felt that I could die in peace. Twice, the rais- 
ing, the last effort of nature, roused me from 
this state, and brought me back to life, to a dim 
consciousness of the room, of my, and of your 
suffering, my dear father. I could but seize the 
moments thus unexpectedly offered me, to pray 
for mercy to myself and for consolation to you. 
I now feel like one brought back from death to 
life, but it must be for a short time. I have 
lost so much blood, that I cannot recover my 



232 MEMOIR, 






strength. I may possibly be able to reach Win- 
chester. I should hardly dare attempt the long 
rides in the cars beyond that. I cannot leave 
here in less than two weeks, and should require 
as much time to get to Winchester. I hardly 
dare take the responsibility of not writing to 
mother immediately. ?; 



The particulars of this attack were thus writ- 
ten down by his father at the time. 

Soon after returning from a short ride on 
his pony, Robert had a sudden and severe at- 
tack of hemorrhage, about ten o'clock. I had 
stepped down to the spring when it occurred. 
He had great difficulty in making himself un- 
derstood by the servant who came for me. I 
was with him in a moment or two, and found 
him discharging blood copiously. His first 
words were, " O, my dear father, I am going. 
God bless you ! God forever bless you and my 
dear mother ! Comfort her all you can. This 
will be a hard thing for her to bear. Do not 
grieve, my dear father. I had hoped to have 
been permitted to live, and be a comfort to you 
in the decline of life. But God's will be done. 
He knows what is best for us, better than we 
do. Look to Him for consolation. There only 
can you find it. 



MEMOIR. 233 

" I am going, my dear, dear father. God, in 
his infinite mercy, forgive my sins. It is 
through his mercy alone I can hope for for- 
giveness. When the body returns to dust, the 
spirit ascends to God who gave it. Receive, 
O God, thy gift ! 

" Bless me, my dear father. I know this is 
hard for you to bear. Put your trust in God. 
He will comfort you." He then repeated a 
part of the Lord's prayer. 

" I go to join our dear friends who have gone 
before me, and they are not a few. We shall 
meet again in a better world." All this was 
said in the most touching tone and manner, in- 
terrupted continually by spells of coughing up 
blood. I could not see his face, for I was sup- 
porting him in my arms. In broken sentences, 
but with great distinctness, he repeated that 
beautiful passage: 

" Or ever the silver cord be loosed, 

Or the golden bowl be broken, 

Or the pitcher be broken at the fountain; 

Or the wheel broken at the cistern ; 

Then shall the dust return to the earth, whence it came, 

And the spirit to God who gave it. 5 ' 

"O, my dear mother ! how much I love her. 
Tell her so. God will comfort her. I know 



234 MEMOIR. 

how good she is. She must try to be resigned. 
Life has little to offer me ; I can leave it 
without regret. It is only your suffering, and 
the parting with you and mother, that is hard. 
I care not for bodily pain ; that is nothing. 
Through the infinite mercy of God I shall be 
happier than I ever could have been here. 
Give my love to J. M. F., and cousin Sarah. 
Tell him he must be a son to you now. 

"Give my love to Mr. Morison : I owe him 
a great deal — more than I can express. I feel 
the value, at this time, of what he has done for 
me. God bless him for it. I have many other 
dear friends ; give my love to them all. Fare- 
well, Frank. It may be good for you to know 
what it is to die. I do not say so of myself; 
but at such a time as this, you will feel the 
value of a religious life. 

"God bless you, my dear, dear father. You 
have more than done the duty of a father to 
me. I thank God for it, when you say that I 
have always been a comfort to you and my dear 
mother. Take my last kiss to her. 

" Do not say my life has been blameless. I 
am conscious of many wrong things. But my 
trust is in the mercy of God, and I know it is 
infinite. Into his hands I commit my spirit. 






MEMOIR. 235 

O God ! receive thy gift." — In the most touch- 
ing manner, he again repeated, "Or ever the 
silver cord be loosed," &c. 

" O no ! It matters not what becomes of the 
body after the spirit has left it. I have no wish 
in regard to that. If Dr. Bartlett has any de- 
sire to examine it, let him do so." 

The physician cautioned him against talking. 
"O, it won't make any difference, Doctor; I 
have but little time, and must say what I have 
to, while I can." 

He was leaning back in my arms all this 
time, and spoke in the intervals of coughing, 
sometimes with difficulty, and once or twice so 
feebly, it seemed as if that voice which had so 
long been one of gladness to our ears, must 
soon be hushed, and the eye, so often beaming 
with looks of affection, closed forever. I could 
hardly catch the words. They were full of the 
most touching farewells. 

The hemorrhage gradually abated, and he 
revived; Warmth returned to his limbs, the 
coughing diminished, and once more my heart 
was gladdened by his look of love. He soon 
after dropped into a sleep ; his breathing be- 
came less hurried, his complexion lost its livid 
hue, and looked natural again. 



336 MEMOIR. 

This might have lasted half an hour ; I can- 
not tell. I only know that a life so dear to us, 
is spared a little longer ; and I pray God it may 
be until he can receive his mother's blessing, 
and imprint a last kiss on her cheek. 



FROM ROBERTS MEMORANDUM BOOK. 

At one time, during this last attack of hem- 
orrhage, I felt that I was dying. Everything 
grew dim before my eyes. My memory failed 
me. I could not think of the next word I 
wished to say, and I could not utter the one 
upon my lips. A delightful feeling of peace, of 
freedom from all pain and suffering, of with- 
drawal from the world, came over me. My 
mind was perfectly clear. I had no thought of 
returning to life ! This, then, is death, and 
now, I thought, nothing but the last rattle in 
the throat is wanting before my spirit takes its 
flight. And I listened to hear it. The thoughts, 
the feelings of that one instant of time were 
such as could not be in any other instant in 
life. The change, the great change, noiv is. 
With what an agony of expectation, of hope, 
of wonder, did my mind turn upon itself, to feel 
its own change, to follow out, as it were, its 



MEMOIR. 237 

own identity, through the changes it was to 
pass through. 

This was all over in one instant. By the 
last efforts of nature, a cough threw the Wood 
from my lungs, and I revived agair# It was 
very painful to return to so much suffering, and 
the sensation was of unmingled regret. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

Red Sulphur Springs, June 3d, 1844. 

I feel, my dearest mother, that you must be 
anxious to hear from me myself, although I 
scarcely know how to write to you. That 
should pass between us now which cannot be 
said in writing, and which words can scarcely 
express. Father has written you the particu- 
lars of this last attack. It is hard to give up 
all hope ; and to feel that this beautiful world, 
and life, which is so dear to us all, must now 
be as nothing to me. But it is what I, and I 
hope you, my dear mother, have long looked 
forward to, in my case. And whether it be a 
little sooner or later, I hope and I almost feel 
that I can be resigned. 

There is much difference in thinking over 



238 



MEMOIR. 






these things, and in the reality, when placed 
suddenly before us — and that, when life has 
so much that is dear to you also. To feel that 
henceforth "you can have no part in it, that it 
is nothiri!§ to you, so clashes with your whole 
being, tha tit is difficult to realize it. O! what 
would be man's feelings then, were it not for a 
belief in another and a higher state of exist- 
ence. It is in the certainty of this that I now 
trust. And, in thinking upon it, how one's 
thoughts are drawn from this world. Of how 
little consequence does this life seem to us ! 
And of how very little moment is it whether 
we stay here a few years more or less ! Death 
has no terrors for me. It is merely the passage 
from one state of existence to another. And 
already I have gone through with all but that 
last and final change. Most unexpectedly was 
I rescued when hope was not; and my only 
thought was, that this is death ! And now, my 
dearest mother, I have the one hope, that I may 
be enabled to return home, and pass a little 
time in quietness and peace, and in communion 
with my dearest friends. 

And I think I shall be able to do so. I am 
recovering from the effects of this attack faster 
than I have any reason to hope. And the 



MEMOIR. 239 

strength that enables me to do so, will, I think, 
be sufficient to carry me through the journey. 
Ever thy loving son, Robert. 



FROM HIS FATHER. 

Red Sulphur, Monday morning, June 3d. 

My letter of Friday evening must have caused 
much suffering. I wish it could have been 
spared ; but we both thought it was right for 
you to be made acquainted with the exact 
truth. I am able to write more encouragingly 
now. .... This morning Robert was dressed 
and took his breakfast at half past seven, and 
now sits beside the table reading. His pulse is 
lower than last evening considerably, but still 
too frequent. It is wonderful to me that he has 
so much strength after such a loss of blood. I 
think there is now reason to hope that he will 
be able to begin the journey from here some- 
what sooner than we at first apprehended, per- 
haps by next Monday. But we shall be very 
careful and prudent. He will not ride the pony 
at all. The road from here is much better than 
what we have passed over, and I think fifteen 
or eighteen miles a day can be travelled with 



240 MEMOIR. 

safety in the cool of the morning. If so, I hope 
to save you a part, at least, of the journey from 
Winchester, and meet you, perhaps, at Harri- 
sonburg. 

I cannot tell what a relief it will be to me 
when I can see Robert's hand in his mother's 
once more. I am afraid this long journey will 
be to fatiguing, and I wish it might have been 
spared you. There does not now appear to be 
any necessity for great haste, for I think Robert 
will get home once more. I would not there- 
fore feel in too much of a hurry. I should take 
the steamboat routes, &c. &c. 

Seven o'clock, P. M. Robert has continued 
through the day, quite as well, certainly, and 
thinks we can leave here next Saturday instead 
of Monday. Of course we shall be governed 
by circumstances, and endeavor to be prudent 
and careful. My great anxiety is to see him 
once more with his mother, and in our own 
home. 






FROM THE SAME. 

Red Sulphur, Wednesday, 5th June, 1844. 

My last was on Monday afternoon. Robert 
did not have a very good night ; the increased 



MEMOIR. 241 

cough, which has continued since the hemor- 
rhage, kept him awake. Still, after eating his 
breakfast, Tuesday morning, he seemed better, 
walked down to the spring, and at five o'clock 
took a short ride with me in the carriage, and 
said it did him good. He bore the exercise very 
well, and it was not followed by any excite- 
ment, or pain in the chest ; indeed, he has not 
complained of any since the attack. An in- 
creased difficulty of breathing and weakness are 
what he has to contend with. He is now able 
to eat more nourishing food, and, I think, will 
gain a little strength every day. He is quite 
confident we shall be able to leave here Satur- 
day, if not Friday, and I think we may do so, 
if the ride to-day and to-morrow does not 
fatigue him. He is exceedingly tired of stay- 
ing here, and anxious to be getting towards 
home. On that account I feel that we ought 
to go as soon as it will do. The Doctor here 
apprehends no danger of another hemorrhage ; 
at all events, for some time. I cannot help feel- 
ing very anxious about it. The responsibilities 
of my situation almost paralyze me. If I can 
only see Robert home once more and with his 
mother, nothing will ever induce me to go away 
again with him. These hemorrhages are dread- 

Q 



242 MEMOIR. 

ful. The length of our rides and time for stop- 
ping to rest will be regulated by his feelings. 
So far as we can now judge, I think he will be 
able to get to the Warm Springs, Virginia, be- 
fore you reach there, perhaps to Harrisonburg. 
P. S. Seven o'clock. Robert took a short ride 
again and bore it very well. He[is weak, how- 
ever, and pale. If we can only have him with 
us the remainder of this sad summer, I think I 
could be resigned to what we have both long 
known must be borne, and which will be very 
hard, come when it may. 



FROM ROBERT'S JOURNAL. 



Saturday, June 8th. Left the Red Sulphur, 
and once more on our eventful journey. Came 
to the Salt Sulphur — seventeen miles. Road 
good ; and am not fatigued, and hope to suffer 
no inconvenience. Of course, I expect no fur- 
ther benefit from this journey, or from anything 
now. I am going home to die ! And thankful, 
most thankful shall I be, if it is permitted me to 
do so. I have looked upon death so frequently 
and so closely, that it has lost all its terrors to 
me. I have felt that I could welcome it as a 



MEMOIR. 243 

release from all anxiety and suffering. And, at 
home with my friends, I know that I can do so. 
Not that it is not very hard to leave this beau- 
tiful world, and the friends who are so dear, so 
very dear to me. 

Sunday, June 9th. Twenty-five miles to the 
White Sulphur. The ride did me good. The 
road was most excellent. 

Monday, June 10th. Sixteen miles to Gal- 
ligan's. 

These were the last words he wrote. 



FROM HIS FATHER TO J. H. MORISON. 

Harrisonburg, (Va.) June 15th, 1844. 

MY DEAR FRIEND, 

I have been so much engrossed in mind and 
body for the last two weeks, as only to find 
leisure to write to Robert's mother. But now I 
must tell you, in a very hurried manner, of his 
condition. Every day I have felt we might be 
obliged to stop ; for sleepless nights and great dif- 
ficulty of breathing are exhausting his strength, 
and at the close of each day I have thanked 
God, for getting so much nearer his mother 
with him. And now she is within sixty miles 



244 MEMOIR. 

of us, perhaps thirty. It seems to me, if I could 
only see them together once more with Robert's 
hand clasped in hers, I could almost be willing 
to part with him. I have lived a long life 
within the last few weeks. Nothing that earth 
has to offer would be any compensation for the 
precious hours I have spent with him, and the 
tokens of love ■ — love that will survive all per- 
ishing things, and bind us together for eternity. 
There never was, it seems to me, a more beau- 
tiful spirit, thoughtless of self — caring nothing 
for bodily suffering, living only in the affec- 
tions — a manly, noble boy. 

It seems hard that so much promise should 
be so early cut off from usefulness ; and yet 
it must be right, though a hard thing for me to 
say, and feel it to be so. He has sent a message 
of love to you, which I know you will value; 
for it is such proofs of not having lived in vain, 
that are the priceless rewards of religious influ- 
ence exerted upon the young. 

I hope when Robert gets a little sleep, which 
he is trying to do, he will be able to go on half 
way to Winchester. 

P. S. Seven o'clock. It has commenced rain- 
ing hard, and I fear we cannot leave this place 
to-day. 1 have sent an express to hasten Lydia 



MEMOIR. 245 

on. God grant she may reach here in time ; for 
although Robert may live to get home even, yet 
the uncertainty makes every hour precious. 

Nine o'clock. And now, my dear friend, it 
has come at last — the blow which has been so 
long impending, and which I have tried so hard 
to be prepared for, has fallen. May my hea- 
venly Father enable me to bear it like a man — 
like a Christian, and consecrate the last few 
days' and weeks' experience to me, to us all, for 
our everlasting good. Time, and my own con- 
stitutional temperament, will no doubt mitigate 
the poignancy of grief; but I pray God the 
influences of Robert's life and death may be 
abiding on a father whom he loved so much, 
and whom he blessed almost with his last 
breath. He is gone ! The tie, as strong as ever 
bound father and son together, is broken. And 
such a son, so full of affection, of promise — 
doubly endeared to us from the delicacy of his 
health — our anxious solicitude from childhood 
even, and his own maturity of character — his 
purity of life, his Christian principles, strong 
without parade or obtrasiveness. And to you, 
my dear friend, I feel he is most indebted for 
these; and now you have your reward. You 
did much towards forming a character for hea- 



246 MEMOIR. 

ven and happiness ; and, as he said in his mes- 
sage to you, God bless you for it. A father's 
blessing abide with you forever. 

I was writing the first postscript, when Rob- 
ert called to me to change his position, and said 
he was going to sleep. Frank sat at the foot of 
the bed, keeping away the flies. He arranged 
his head on the pillow, and I went back to the 
table, and began a letter. Within ten minutes, 
during which I thought he was sleeping, Frank 
called me to his bed-side. The spirit had fled, 
without a struggle, or so much even as a sigh. 
He lay with his cheek resting on his hand; his 
features so placid, that I called his name, ex- 
pecting, at least, a last look of love. But he 
was with his God. This is hard, my dear 
friend, very hard; and yet you know, as few 
do, perhaps, how dear the memory he has left 
behind him for our consolation. When the 
attack of hemorrhage at the Red Sulphur 
Springs occurred, and whilst coughing up blood 
and not expecting to survive, he said some 
things in broken sentences, and in the intervals 
of coughing, which I afterwards noted down. 
Amongst them was a message to you. I shall 
see you when we get home, and Avill show it 
you. O, how I blessed God for such a son. 



MEMOIR. 247 

then and now ! I cannot write more. It is 

wrong to rapine that his life could not be spared 

for one day — his mother so near, and not to 

receive his parting look of love, and his last 

kiss. 

Your affectionate friend, 

W. W. Swain. 



BY HIS FATHER. 

Harrisonburg, Saturday, June 15, 1844. 

The curtain has fallen, and all is dark, and 
yet not so ; for although I cannot now penetrate, 
the gloom, I know that there is light beyond, 
and it will reappear. Yes, my blessed angel 
boy, your memory, the life-long remembrance 
of what you were in character, in affections, 
will be the light in my path. O, that it may 
guide me aright, and then your death will be 
sanctified to me, as your whole life has been a 
blessing. What an experience have the events 
of the .last few weeks been fraught with to me ! 
What a treasure the little offices of kindness and 
affectionate endearments between us ! O, that 
his mother could have shared them ! But this 
was denied her. It had been my fervent prayer 
that she might fold him in a last embrace. She 



248 MEMOIR. 

must now take his farewell blessing from me. 
Blessing upon blessing was sent to her, and 
given to me. u Bless you, my dear father,'' 
were nearly the last words he uttered. "I 
cannot be with you long. How thankful I am 
you are here now. You have always been so 
kind to me. I love you — O, how much 1 love 
you and my dear mother ! " 

The obstruction to his breathing was so great 
he could talk but little, and any one being near 
the bed oppressed him : for that reason I only 
went to him occasionally, when I thought his 
position might be changed for an easier one. 
His breathing had been nearly or quite as la- 
bored two or three mornings before, until re- 
lieved by riding. A short time before he went 
to sleep the last time — alas ! the last time — I 
asked him if he thought he should be able to 
go on the journey after eating breakfast. He 
said u Yes, but not yet ; I must try to get a little 
sleep first. " Soon after, I said to him, " It is 
raining, my dear son.' 7 "O, how sorry I am! 
I suppose it won't do for us to start." I then 
told him, as we should be detained here all day, 
I thought best to send an express to meet and 
hasten his mother. He assented, and I went 
out and despatched William with a note, and 



MEMOIR. 249 

orders to keep on till he met her. Shortly 
after this, he called me to arrange his pillows, 
and said he thought he could sleep. He then 
laid his head down, and I went across the room 
to finish a letter, leaving Frank at the foot of 
the bed. Within fifteen minutes, Frank spoke 
to me, and I went to the bed-side. Robert's 
cheek was resting on his hand, his face as calm 
and placid, as if indeed it were only sleep : but 
the spirit that animated it was with his God. 
Not a struggle, not even a sigh — his ceasing to 
breathe was the only indication that it was not 
sleep. 



FROM HIS FATHER TO J. H. MORISON. 

Winchester, Monday, June 17, 1844. 

MY DEAR FRIEND, AND THE VERY DEAR FRIEND 

OF ROBERT, NOW WITH HIS HEAVENLY FATHER. 

His mother reached Harrisonburg three hours 
too late. He could not place his hand in hers, 
or give her even one of those looks of love 
which have been so precious to me every day, 
almost every hour, for the last fortnight. I 
have prayed for this long and anxiously, feeling 
if it only might be so, I could part with Robert 
almost cheerfully. And yet we now both of us 



250 MEMOIR. 

feel it may be better as it is. His breathing 
was so labored the last two or three days, that 
he could not have said what he wanted to, 
without much suffering to himself, and dis- 
tressing her by the effort. If she could only 
have been permitted to embrace her angel boy 
some days sooner ! But we must be resigned. 
Robert knew, Friday afternoon, she was nearly 
to Harrisonburg, and would be with us Sat- 
urday, at twelve o'clock, and expressed his 
regret that the meeting could not have been 
a day or two later, when he hoped to be better 
able to converse. I need not tell you, who 
know her so well, that she is perfectly calm, 
with the blessed conviction of Robert's being 
with us still. We neither of us connect any 
feeling of gloom or sadness with this death of 
the body, a separation to the outward senses 
only, and with so bright, so radiant a vision to 
look back upon, such treasures of memory, 
why, I almost feel, at times, glad he is gone, 
before the contact with earth had soiled the 
purity of his spirit. And then, again, the natu- 
ral feeling of destitution, of loneliness, of dis- 
appointed hope, the loss to us whilst here, to 
society, of so much promise, — this is all hard 
to be reconciled to. And yet, for aught we 



MEMOIR. 251 

know, his early death may exert higher and 
more widely extended influences than could his 
life. Thus, in the all-wise dispensations of 
Providence, our severest trials are ministering, 
not to our own good only, but to that of many 
others we may know not of. 

We shall reach home, if nothing happens, 
Friday or Saturday of this week. My own 
feelings, and those of my wife, would lead us to 
dispense with any gathering at the house. They 
always seemed to me an intrusion upon hours 
when you want to be most alone. I shrink 
from expressions or show of sympathy, except 
from a very few, and when I know it comes 
from the heart. I should prefer, in this case, 
taking Robert's remains quietly to the island, 
and laying them in his green forest grave, with 
only a few friends of his and ours around it. 
But I have thought the influences spoken of 
above might be more impressive upon some of 
his young acquaintances and friends, and I 
ought, on that account, to sacrifice my individ- 
ual feelings. I don't know whether the time 
can be deferred long enough to allow of your 
getting to New Bedford. I very much wish 
you, of all others, might be there. But come 
down, and, if too late for that, it cannot be for 



252 MEMOIR. 

the expression of heartfelt gratitude for all you 

have done for Robert. 

Your sincere friend, 

W. W. Swain. 



Robert's remains were brought home to the 
island that he loved so well. A little open spot 
in the woods, where he had often stopped to rest 
or meditate, was selected, and towards the close 
of a lovely Sabbath day, in the presence of a 
few friends, the body was committed to the 
earth, after reading these words over his grave : 

" Or ever the silver cord be loosed. 

Or ihe golden bowl be broken, 

Or the pitcher be broken at the fountain. 

Or the wheel broken at the cistern ; 

Then shall the dust return to the earth, whence it came, 

And the spirit to God who gave it." 

And that spot, the grave of so many hopes, 
around which so many dear memories gather, 
shall also be the birth-place of affections and 
desires infinitely more precious. 



APPENDIX 



EXTRACT FROM A SERMON FREACHED IN NEW BEDFORD, 
BY EPHRAIM PEABODY, ON THE DAY THAT ROBERT WAS 
BURIED. 

" And now the mortal remains of another are brought 
back to the home, which his eyes were no more permitted to 
look upon. His young friends know how unspotted his char- 
acter was from the beginning. They know that, while he 
was surrounded by every outward means of happiness, a 
large portion of his short life was spent in sickness and 
pain and disappointed hope ; and how its last years were a 
perpetual surrender of objects and plans which he had 
most at heart. Yet no one, I suppose, ever heard from him 
a murmuring word, while few ever knew how very much 
he suffered from physical weakness and infirmities, which 
so crush and wear out the heart of youth. He bore pain 
and successive disappointments with a brightness of spirit 
more unfailing than that with which most persons bear 
health and success. He was doubtless highly gifted by 
nature with a happy union of the best moral elements ; and 
what nature gave, he did not squander. As he grew up, 



254 APPENDIX. 

the best qualities of the soul appeared, growing with his 
growth ; not as fugitive impulses, but as established prin- 
ciples. Those who knew him, knew how true he was, 
how thoughtless of self, how thoughtful of others, how 
high-minded and upright. Base and unworthy things 
found in him nothing on which to fasten. He had the 
virtue of magnanimity ; he had the grace of consistency. 
One part of life was not .a reproach to another : and his 
companions could feign to themselves no apology for bad 
passions or low aims, by referring to similar things in his 
preceding course. His early maturity of mind and heart 
was undoubtedly, in part, the blessed fruit of trials arid dis- 
appointments faithfully met. But whatever the cause, it 
existed, and gave promise of a life that should be a wide 
and general blessing. I speak of these things, not to enu- 
merate qualities which made him beloved, but to show their 
worth when tried in the testing hour of death, and how a 
good life prepares the way for a happy departure. 

" I call upon the young, while life is still spared, to give 
heed to the words of one of their own number, at the time 
when he stood under the shadow and in the presence of 
death. 

" For months he had known that his disease was fatal, 
and he had not tried to blind himself to its character. As 
the end approached, he did not hesitate to unbosom and 
disclose his deepest feelings." 

After repeating many of Robert's expressions, which 
have been given here, the discourse adds : 

" These are not words uttered by rote, the lips repeat- 
ing unconsciously, in the vague, fitful wanderings of the 
mind, a language impressed on the memory long before. 



APPENDIX. 255 

One of its striking peculiarities is, its individuality ; and, 
more remarkable still, that self-possessed composure, which 
enabled him, as if he had been but a spectator, to pause 
upon, and watch, the mysterious changes, of that dread 
hour, when heart and flesh fail, and the mere thought of 
which can make the boldest tremble. 

" This composure, this self-balanced state of mind, it is, 
which gives a solemn and serious force to his expressions 
of religious trust, and the importance of a religious life, 
which nothing else could give. It shows it to be the lan- 
guage of his soberest convictions, uttered with all the force 
and emphasis of the dying hour ; of his soberest convic- 
tions, and not of his fears. If one so self-balanced and 
self-composed, could speak thus of a religious life, and felt 
so deeply his dependence on God, for all comfort and hope, 
believe me, the time will come, when we shall feel the 
truth, and the solemn meaning of his words. 

11 What illustrations, too, of the immortal life of the soul, 
independent of the life of the body, are suggested by this 
scene ! Here was a body sinking in utter feebleness, the 
functions of life all but suspended, the physical nature 
prostrate, so that they who were at his side trembled, les? 
every moment should be the last. And yet, at this very 
moment, what activity of the mind ! What intense and 
glowing .life in the affections ! What inward spiritual 
calm, and self-control ! The whole moral nature, how 
alive ! Not flickering, like an expiring lamp, (this applies 
only to the body,) but energetically, vigorously, healthily 
alive in all its noblest powers. Not flickering like an ex- 
piring lamp, but gathering up its energies, full of " ex- 
pectation, and hope, and wonder," as if dropping a chain, 



256 APPENDIX. 

and preparing for its flight into heaven. What an attesta- 
tion is a scene like this, to the independent and immortal 
life of the soul ! 

" In our seasons of worldliness, we may doubt, but not 
when we look on a scene like this. The spiritual world is 
around us, and God near us, when we witness such a 
scene. 

" A few more days elapsed, and he passed away in a tran- 
quil sleep ; so peacefully, that those at his side knew it 
not till he had ceased to breathe. So calm, composed, 
were his last days, while he knew that any hour might 
be the last. It was the beautiful, and beautiful, because 
the consistent, close of a beautiful life. Who can look on 
such a death-bed, and doubt the infinite worth of virtue, of 
religion, of a pious trust in God? And what is that life, 
and what the condition of him who is without them? 

"O ye who are young, give heed to the voices which 
come from the early graves around you ! Remember that 
life is as uncertain to you as it was to those who are gone. 
The time will speedily arrive when that religious trust 
which was their only support, and which was of such infi- 
nite worth to them, will be of the same priceless value to 
you. Let it not be in vain that they have lived and died. 
Let not the impression, made by their departure, be lost. 
But as you sit over against their graves, dedicate your 
hearts and your lives, the free-will-offering of your youth 
and health, to Him who is your Father.' ' 



The following extracts from letters received from two of 
Robert's young friends, after his death, bear testimony to 



APPENDIX. 257 

the estimation in which he was held by those who knew 
him with the intimacy of school-boy and college life ; they 
are inserted, not so much to show that he was beloved — 
but, what is of more importance — as an evidence of the 
influence exerted by his daily life and character, upon his 
younsr companions ; — and who shall measure the extent or 
duration of such influences? 

" It is a great pleasure, though a sad one, for me to tell 
you how I loved Robert, and I know you will bear with 
me in what I say as coming from one who received so 
much kindness from him, and who will always feel deeply 
grateful for so true a friendship. PI is frankness and sin- 
cerity were so valuable, his judgment so well matured, 
and his social feelings so - warm, that his friendship was 
truly of great worth, even if it were but for the remem- 
brance. In the strength of moral and religious principle, I 
always felt he was many years before the rest of his age. 
He had more of patience and resignation ; there was that 
beaming look about his face, and that peacefulness of 
mind which made one almost feel, when thinking of him, 
that he was already living partly in a better world. He 
has done much good in his mission on earth ; let us only 
think of its goodness, and not of its duration, and it will 
not seem brief to us. He has given all of us an incentive 
to live with love, charity and religion in our hearts, that 
we may meet again where no tie can be severed." 

" I knew Robert intimately when he attended the Acad- 
emy at Exeter, and remember his many kind acts to my- 
self and our common friends with the greatest pleasure ; 
none seemed more beloved or respected among all my 
R 



258 APPENDIX. 

schoolmates ; none of us can ever forget his kindness, his 
cultivated taste, remarkably mature judgment and high 
moral principle. No one loved the life of school and col- 
lege days better than he did, and his social disposition 
made him a choice companion. His vivacity I never saw 
equalled ; perhaps, because no one else had his virtues. 
I have seen him in all situations to which a boy at school 
is exposed, and he never forgot himself. There was the 
same frankness, the same kindness, the same good judg- 
ment, the same purity and high-minded principle, and his 
companions always felt his influence. He has written his 
own name and sweet epitaph, in broad characters, on the 
living hearts of his friends, at once a memorial of his own 
goodness, and an exhortation to them to follow his exam- 
ple. I have read the account of his last illness and death 
again and again, with the deepest interest ; the qualities I 
so much admired in his life, chastened and made to har- 
monize by Christian faith and love, could not but make his 
death what it was. His firmness, it seems, did not desert 
him in the trying hour, but grew stronger and deeper as 
the danger grew more fearful ; perhaps, I ought not to 
say danger, when ' the valley of the shadow of death,' 
to use his own words, 'seemed so pleasant.' His pure, 
disinterested disposition saw only the deep pain of his 
friends when his own sufferings were most acute ; and I 
see once more his warm affection and true love, brighter, if 
possible, than ever. These, in all circumstances during 
his short life, were his characteristics, and they made that 
life a blessing to all who knew him, and so they made his 
death an example of the good man's end. 

" Since Mr. M.'s letter came, I have thought of nothing 



APPENDIX. 259 

but Robert's life and death. I have lived over again all our 
intercourse, been over our walks, our fishing excursions, 
sports, conversations, and boyish plans ; nothing could be 
pleasanter. It seems as if a vacation had intervened, and 
I almost look forward to his kind greeting and merry laugh ; 
then again, the thought of his death comes over me, and I 
feel that I have lost a real friend, such a one too as I never 
had before." 



